


Of Lacewing Flies and Lemon Tarts

by limegreensockft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Azkaban, Barty/Elsie Crouch, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff, Gilderita, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:14:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 72,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23082325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limegreensockft/pseuds/limegreensockft
Summary: Death, love, heartbreak, lemon tarts:The true story of the Crouch family.
Relationships: Bartemius Crouch Jr. & Bartemius Crouch Sr., Bartemius Crouch Jr./Bartemius Crouch Sr., Bartemius Crouch Jr./Mrs. Crouch, Bartemius Crouch Sr./Mrs Crouch, Gilderoy Lockhart/Rita Skeeter
Comments: 47
Kudos: 24





	1. Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hey-o, friends!  
> This is an idea I've been working on for a while. (I've gotten a little obsessed with it, really.)  
> I've been re-reading Goblet of Fire and I started wondering what Mrs. Crouch was really like, since we see so little of her in the book. Barty Crouch Senior is painted as a workaholic who's never home and basically neglected his family, but Barty Crouch Jr. says that he "loved her (Mrs. Crouch) as he never loved me." It got me thinking about what their relationship must have been like, and I'm a sucker for angsty, "he seems like a bad guy but he's just misunderstood" stories, so I couldn't help but write about them.
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> Xx LimeGreenSockFt xX

At 4:00, Elsie Crouch stood in her nightgown, straightening her husband’s tie. She yawned—the sun wasn’t even up, but he was fully dressed and off to work.

“Don’t forget Barty’s birthday supper is tonight—you’ll be home, won’t you?”

“The Minister wants me at the hearing but, yes, barring any complications, I’ll be home.” He frowned at the look in her eyes. “Elizabeth, it’s a very important meeting. I have to be there.”

“I know, it’s just...Barty’s getting older now—he’ll be ten—and he won’t want to spend time with us forever. He’ll be off to Hogwarts in a _year_.”

“I realize that, Elsie.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll do my best to get here.”

“I know how hard you work to take care of us. I love that about you.” She placed a hand on his chest. “I just don’t want you to miss seeing him grow up. He’s a good boy.”

His mouth twitched upward at the corners. “Like his mother.” He tipped her chin affectionately.

“Oh, there’s some Crouch in that boy yet. He’s far too stubborn to only take after me.” She laughed.

Barty rolled his eyes. “Now if we could only keep him focused for more than five minutes at a time.”

“Fat chance. That boy’s worse than a Niffler.”

“Also like his mother.” He chuckled.

Just then, the clock on the mantle chimed. Barty grimaced. “I have to go, Else, I can’t be late.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders, brushing off a rogue speck of dust. “You look lovely.”

He smiled and wrapped his arms around her waist, eyes crinkling warmly as he looked down at her. Stretching up on her toes to reach him, she put her arms around his neck and looked at her greying, exhausted, wonderful husband. He cupped her cheek and kissed her simply.

“I’m off, then.”

“Bye, love. Good luck with your meeting!”

Barty picked up a handful of Floo powder and spoke his destination.

“Don’t forget Barty’s birthday tonight!”

He threw it into the fireplace where it exploded with a glittery green puff.

“I’m making lemon tarts!”

He stepped into the grate and disappeared inside the emerald flames.

* * *

At 7:00 pm, Barty Crouch Jr. was playing exploding snap on the rug. Elsie was putting the finishing touches on a platter of lemon tarts and glancing at the fireplace every few minutes.

“Mother?” Barty looked expectantly up at Elsie. “Father _is_ coming...isn’t he?”

Elsie glanced at the clock. 7:10. “He...he said he’d try to make it, darling. I’m sure he’s just a bit late.”

“Okay.” He went back to playing. “Mother, can I open a present?”

“Oh, alright,” she said, smiling at the mischievous glimmer in her son’s eyes. “But just one.”

By 9:00, Barty had opened all of his presents and was eagerly playing with his new toy broom. Elsie stood in the kitchen, levitating plates into the sink one by one. Sometimes she liked washing them by hand, like muggles, but she was simply too tired tonight.

* * *

At 10:30, she picked up her sleeping son and carried him to his room. As she was tucking him in, his eyes popped open.

“No, I can’t go to sleep yet! We have to wait for Father!”

“Sweetheart, it’s late.”

“No, we have to! He said he’d be here!” Barty’s bottom lip quivered.

“I know, darling, I’m sorry. He’s just very busy at work right now.” She ran a hand through his hair.

“I know.” He said quietly. Elsie’s heart broke for her sweet son and she felt her throat tighten.

“You know what, I think we can make time for one story if you like.”

“Okay. Can you do the Fountain of Fair Fortune?”

Elsie nodded and summoned his well-loved copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. She opened the book and began reading the story they both knew nearly by heart. Barty was asleep again before the third page.

* * *

At 11:45, Barty Crouch emerged from the fireplace, looking bone-weary in the green glow of the flames. His wife stood motionless in the shadows, wrapped in a houndstooth blanket. He levitated his hat and cloak into the entryway and turned to go upstairs.

“Barty Crouch!” He spun around, startled. His shoulders sank when he saw her.

“Elsie, don’t start,” he said tiredly. “There was nothing I could do, I simply couldn’t—”

“ _Bartemius_.” She said sharply. “That boy _adores_ you. He waited all night for you!”

“Elsie, the _Minister_ needed me. There were four raids tonight and I’ve got two Aurors in St. Mungo’s. What would you have had me do?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped, “but you need to figure it out because this family is falling apart!”

“There will be other birthdays...”

“It’s not about one stupid dinner, Barty! I never see you anymore! Your _son_ never sees you! Up at dawn, home after midnight—my God! You’re never _here_!”

Elsie wasn’t a woman prone to outbursts, and almost never raised her voice. It was quite safe to say she had her husband’s full attention. Barty was dismayed to see a tear running down her cheek. Looking at her now, he felt the sharp sting of guilt. He didn’t see his wife. He saw the 14-year old girl he had fallen in love with at Hogwarts—the girl he had promised to love and provide for.

He reached for her. “Elsie...”

“Don’t,” she sobbed, breaking his heart. Barty drew her into his arms. All of her anger and resolve seemed to evaporate and she melted into him. He stroked her hair and murmured softly to her.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “I should have rescheduled with Jenkins. I’m sorry, Elsie.” He kissed her forehead. “You know I love you both more than the world.”

Elsie sniffled. “I love you so much, Barty Crouch, but you can be _so_ bloody annoying sometimes.”

Barty laughed heartily, her hair muffling the sound. “I can’t disagree with you there.” He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Is he still awake?”

She shook her head. “He fell asleep an hour ago.”

* * *

At midnight, Barty Crouch opened the downstairs bedroom door and looked in on his sleeping son. His face was awash in the light from the hallway, making him look even younger than his ten years. Taking care not to make any sound, he walked in and sat down on the edge of the bed. The boy was nearly sideways—all tangled in the covers with his feet sticking out. chuckling quietly, he tousled Barty’s unruly, sandy hair. He looked so much like Elsie.

“...Father?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Happy birthday, my boy. I’m sorry I missed the dinner.”

“Mother made kippers,” he wrinkled his freckled nose. “But it’s okay, ‘cause she had lemon tarts for dessert.”

It was amazing, Barty thought privately, how quickly his son could forgive.

“Want to see what I got for my birthday? Can I show him, mother?” Barty hadn’t realized that Elsie was standing in the doorway. She nodded and their son bolted out of bed and over to his toy chest.

“I got a Cleansweep—and it really flies! And a new book from granddad about dragons, and a trick wand, and _ten_ galleons from grandmother and grandfather!”

“Well, it certainly seems like you had a successful day.”

“It was a good haul.” He said very seriously, making both Barty and Elsie laugh.

“Oh, yes, before I forget.” Bartemius reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of parchment embossed with metallic blue ink.

“What’s that?” Barty asked.

“I know it doesn’t make up for dinner, but you’re nearly school age now and I thought it was time you had your own.”

“My own what?” Barty was practically bouncing with excitement.

With a cryptic twinkle in his eye, Bartemius handed his son the parchment.

“Eelops Em-emporium.”

“Eyelops.”

“Good for one owl of your choice. Cage not included—wait a minute! I’m getting an _owl_?”

“I thought we might go to Diagon Alley this weekend. I have Saturday off.”

Bartemius chuckled as his son ran to hug him, nearly bowling him over. Elsie beamed from the doorway, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Barty, darling,” she said, clearing her throat, “you’re going to be exhausted in the morning if you don’t get some sleep—and your _father_ will be, too.”

Barty nodded and jumped into his bed, still bouncing excitedly. His sheets were adorned with little moving dragons that breathed fire and whipped their tails around. “

"My own owl.” He whispered, in awe.

Bartemius grinned at his son.

“Goodnight, boy.”

“Goodnight, father.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” Elsie said, closing the door behind her.

* * *

At 12:15, Elsie and Barty stood facing one another in the hallway, having an entire conversation in complete silence. It didn’t matter—his eyes told her everything he wasn’t able to say with his voice. He touched her cheek softly and she placed a hand on his chest. And in that way, wordlessly, he apologized and, wordlessly, she forgave him.

She kissed him unreservedly and he looked at her like she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. To him, she was.

* * *

At 1:30, Elsie and Bartemius Crouch fell asleep beside one another, his arms around her and her ice-cold feet on his.


	2. The Prophet on Friendship

Elsie was in the den sorting laundry with Winky when Barty got home. It was rather early by his standards, but Elsie barely had time to appreciate this before the look on his face rendered her motionless.

“Winky! What is the meaning of this?”

Winky flattened her ears and looked confused. “Master Barty?”

“For heaven’s sake, Barty, what is it?” Elsie asked.

Wordlessly, he held up an advance copy of The Daily Prophet. The headline flashed across the front page in bold print, underneath an unmistakable photo of Barty:

 _ **Bartemius Crouch—Dedicated Ministry Employee or Absentee Husband and Father?** Bartemius Crouch, or Barty, as he’s known to close friends and family, is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry. While he has, by all accounts, been an incredibly successful leader and is widely admired for his iron resolve in apprehending dark wizards, sources close to him reveal that not all is as it seems within the Crouch family. Crouch’s house-elf, Winky, has confided to one of our junior reporters that Crouch is inattentive to his family and ‘Barty’s’ own wife, admitted to _Me, Myself and I _that he is, in fact, a workaholic, refusing to take time off to spend with his wife and son and even missing important occasions such as anniversary dinners and birthday celebrations. As of now, Crouch is favored to be the next Minister of Magic, but could a man with such little regard for his family truly be entrusted with the fate of the Wizarding World? Meanwhile, Cornelius Fudge (another Minister hopeful) and his wife Abigail were spotted this past Saturday looking very cozy at the theatre—a shocking contrast to Crouch and his neglected family._

_Look for updates on this riveting story as I continue investigating. As always, feel free to write in and let us know your take on this shocking news._

_Yours very sincerely,_ _Me, Myself and I._

Elsie stood speechless, mouthing the words as she read them. She looked up at Barty and opened her mouth to explain, but Winky got there first.

“Winky is sorry, sir! Winky is telling that bad woman to go away. I is telling her Master Barty is loving his family, but she is making Winky’s words different!” Winky looked like she was on the verge of hysterics.

“What woman, Winky?”

“Miss Skeeter, sir. She is coming to the house and asking all sorts of questions about Master and Mistress and young Master Barty. Winky is telling her to go away but she is not listening, sir!”

“Rita Skeeter. I might have known.” Barty closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “It’s alright, Winky. You aren’t in trouble. You may go.” Bowing deeply, Winky turned and Disapparated.

“Don’t punish yourself!” Elsie called after her.

Barty waited until he could no longer hear Winky’s footsteps upstairs before rounding on Elsie, his eyes dark and furious.

“Barty, this—this can’t be right...” Elsie said in disbelief, staring down at the moving photograph of her husband above the article.

“Winky is one thing,” he said slowly. “She’s just an elf and no one in their right mind would give any weight to her statement. But what you have done…is inexcusable. Were you trying to sabotage my career or simply send me the message that you believe I have failed as a husband and a father?”

“No, of course not!” Elsie covered her mouth with her hands. “I don’t think that at all. Barty, I love you more than anything—you’re a _wonderful_ husband and father! I didn’t mean any of it, I was just angry and upset and lonely—you’d worked late all week and I was just venting to her. But—but…” Elsie cast around desperately, “She _swore_ she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Well, she clearly lied to you!”

“No, she wouldn’t, there must be some mistake!”

“ELSIE!” He thundered. “Look at the evidence! You cannot trust reporters!”

“Don’t shout at me!”

“This is my career! This is everything I have worked my entire life for! People are going to read this over breakfast! They’re going to see this and think that I’m not fit for Minister! That I don’t...love my family.” He looked away.

“Oh Barty,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, I—I’ll figure something out, we can fix this.”

“It’s done.” His voice was flat; resigned.

“No, it isn’t.” She said, glaring at The Daily Prophet and setting her jaw. “It doesn’t go to print until tomorrow morning.”

Magicking her hair into a quick bun, she turned once on her heel and Disapparated with a pop.

* * *

Despite the fact that it was nearly midnight, Rita Skeeter was still hard at work. Half a dozen quills were writing letters of their own accord and papers were scattered around her tiny, cramped office. Rita herself was bent over her desk, glasses sliding off the end of her nose and eyes scrunched up in concentration as she chewed absentmindedly on the end of a bright green quill.

Elsie cleared her throat and Rita looked up in surprise, her red lips curling into a grin at the sight of her friend.

“Elsie, darling! How are you? What’re you doing here? Is Barty working late?” Perhaps it was her imagination, but Elsie thought Rita looked slightly guilty at the mention of Barty.

“No. He’s home a bit early tonight, in fact.” Elsie said, staring at Rita.

“How nice for a change!” She winked and smiled. Elsie did not smile back and Rita faltered a bit. Elsie held up a copy of The Daily Prophet.

“Care to explain this?”

Rita shrugged innocently, the tiniest smirk playing on her lips.

“It’s not funny, Rita! I can’t _believe_ you would print this...private conversations between us—things I never intended for anyone else to know!” She motioned to the front page where a picture of Barty featured prominently. Rita had clearly chosen the photograph carefully—he was walking briskly beside Alastor Moody, pausing in conversation only to give the camera a very curt nod. “Look at this!”

“It’ll blow over, darling. Just as soon as I print the next scandal people will forget all about it.”

“My life is not a scandal that you can exploit to meet a deadline!”

“It’s just an article, Elsie, it’s nothing personal!” Rita waved her hand impatiently, but couldn’t quite meet her gaze.

“This is my _family,_ Rita! This is Barty’s career!”

“I was your family once,” she muttered, “before there _was_ a Barty.”

“What?” Elsie stared at her. “ _What?_ Is this because you’re _jealous?”_

“Preposterous,” Rita mumbled. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“Do you not understand that this affects all of us? What hurts him hurts me—hurts our son. Your _godson.”_ Rita flinched. “You babysat him when I was in the hospital—you held my hand when he was born! You _were_ our family, Rita! We _all_ loved you.”

“Not Bartemius.” She muttered.

“Yes, he _did,”_ Elsie said harshly. “He loved you because _I_ loved you. Because that’s what you _do_ when you’re a family. Rita, I have defended you for years _._ For _years_ when Dolores and Mafalda and the _Minister_ _of_ _Magic_ said you were a hypocrite, a fraud—I always stood up for you. _Always.”_ Her voice broke. “You were my sister, Rita. My best friend. How could you do this to us?”

Rita’s eyes filled with tears for one brief moment before she looked away and composed herself.

Looking back, Elsie wasn’t sure what she had expected. An apology? A promise that she’d retract the story? She should have known better than that. When Rita turned around to face Elsie, her eyes were steely and derisive.

“‘ _Bartemius is never home,’ ‘Bartemius missed Christmas dinner again,’ ‘I wish Bartemius would spend more time with our son.’_ Rita said viciously. “You knew exactly what you were getting into with that boring, uptight, old stick in the mud. _You’re_ the one who married him and _you’re_ the one who said it—I didn’t print anything that wasn’t true. Really, Elsie, you shouldn’t have told me if you weren’t prepared for the consequences.” Rita squared her shoulders. “I’m a reporter, Elizabeth. It’s my job. I will not censor what I print simply because an old schoolmate doesn’t like it.”

Elsie gasped as though she had been punched in the stomach. “I think I’d better go.” She said faintly.

“Yes, _Mrs. Crouch_. I think you had.”

* * *

“Are you alright?” Barty looked alarmed when Elsie Apparated into their bedroom.

Elsie shook her head wordlessly, her eyes glittering with tears. Silently, he held his arms out and she collapsed into them, crying softly.

“You were right about her.” She sobbed. “She wouldn’t retract it—she wouldn’t even apologize!”

“I’m sorry. I know how good of friends you two are.” He said quietly, stroking her hair.

“ _No_. Elsie said fiercely. “We’re not friends, not anymore. Some of the things she said about you…it was _awful_.” She looked up at him, her cheeks tear-stained and blotchy. “I won’t have it, Barty, I just won’t. I do _not_...need friends like that.” Elsie hiccupped, but continued determinedly. “I have Dolores and Mafalda and Abigail—and you.”

Elsie was putting on a brave face, but she knew Barty could see how heartbroken she was. Rita had been her best friend since their first year at Hogwarts and, in fact, she was one of the reasons that Barty and Elsie ended up together. If it wasn’t for her pulling strings and manipulating things behind the scenes, Elsie doubted if Barty would have ever asked her out.

“I’ve given her so many chances, Barty,” Elsie whispered. “Forgiven her _so_ many times, and I can’t do it anymore. This isn’t some stupid piece of gossip or Ministry rumor, this is our _family_. I will not stand by and let her ruin all of your hard work.”

Barty’s chest constricted as he cradled his wife; the woman who had done nothing but sacrifice for him—for this family. A sudden pop punctuated the silence. Winky had apparated into the den, her brown eyes wide with concern at the sight of Elsie in such a state.

“My poor Mistress, she is needing Winky!”

“Oh no, Winky, I’m fine, thank you.” Elsie wiped her eyes and swallowed.

“Yes,” Winky said firmly, “Mistress _is_ needing Winky. Winky is making a cup of tea and Mistress is going up to bed and getting some sleep. Master is taking Mistress upstairs while Winky is fixing the tea.” She said.

All of his earlier anger forgotten, Barty nodded and did as the elf instructed.

* * *

_Two years later_

Elsie Crouch and Rita Skeeter didn’t speak again until her son’s trial. That morning, as she walked stiffly down the hallway, she kept her head down, so as not to see the pitying glances thrown her way—or worse, the hateful glares and whispered gossip.

A few steps from the courtroom door, she ran headlong into someone, sending their papers and quill flying.

“Sorry.” Elsie muttered, stooping to help collect the scattered pieces. When she stood up to hand them back, the face that looked back at hers was one she knew well. Blonde curls, sharp blue eyes, unmistakable olive-colored glasses.

Startled, Rita’s mouth dropped open. Elsie knew her appearance was shocking. No longer the young, attractive witch she once was, her hair was thin and grey from stress and her face was gaunt.

Elsie blinked. A stunned silence hung in the air as the two of them stared at one another.

Dropping the stack of papers, Rita flung herself at Elsie, wrapping her arms around her neck. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t believe it when I heard.”

Elsie stood frozen, unable to move or speak past the lump in her throat.

“I won’t print a word of it.” She breathed, “Not a word.”

Still, Elsie could say nothing. Pulling back, Rita gripped her by the shoulders and smiled shakily. There were tears in her eyes.

“You be strong for him.” She whispered. In hindsight, neither of them knew which him she was referring to. “I love you, Elsie.”

Stifling a sob, Elsie hugged her best friend.

“I love you too, Rita.”

* * *

After the trial, Rita owled Elsie at least once a week, sending letters bearing gossip and sweets, neither of which she could bring herself to indulge in. They never did see one another again after that, but both of them had made their peace. Elsie couldn’t write back, but Rita understood. They were very much like sisters in that way—the uncanny ability to know what the other was thinking even when they were miles apart.

A little over a year later, when Rita heard the news of Elsie’s death, she was devastated and did the last and only remaining thing she could for her best friend—not a word of it was printed in the Daily Prophet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Finally updating this! Just a couple quick things: I know Rita's much younger than Mrs. Crouch in canon, but I've had the idea of them being friends stuck in my head forever.  
> Along those same lines, please don't look too closely at any of the dates--I'm trying to stick to dates as well as I can, but some of the ages and timelines are a little wonky! 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and I hope you're not going insane during quarantine!  
> Xx LimeGreenSockFt xX


	3. A Very Barty Beginning

Diagon Alley was bustling this time of year. The air was stifling and the streets were so packed with people that it was nearly impossible to get where you were going without treading on someone’s toes.

Inside Madame Malkin’s shop, the darkened windows obscured the hot sun and gave the air a refreshing chill.

Bartemius Crouch stood on a polished wooden platform wearing brand new Slytherin robes as Madame Malkin scurried around him, taking measurements and placing pins in the hem. A Prefect’s badge was glinting unmistakably on his chest.

“Congratulations, dear,” Madame Malkin said, gesturing to his badge. “Fifth year, I expect?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You’ve O.W.L.’s coming up this year, then. Any idea what you want to do after leaving Hogwarts?”

“Minister for Magic.”

She raised her eyebrows. “My, how ambitious! I shall have to keep my eye out for you, Mr. Crouch!”

Bartemius smiled earnestly at that, and stood just a bit taller. With a swish of her wand, her measuring tape curled itself back into a smart coil.

“That’s you done, my dear.” Madame Malkin said, beckoning to a short girl with blonde hair and dusky green eyes. “Come on up, don’t be shy! Miss Bagman, is it?”

Bartemius was only half-listening as he stepped off the podium and drew a handful of galleons from his moneybag.

“Here you are, Madam Malkin.” He held out the coins.

“Oh, just bung those on the counter, dear, thank you. And tell your mother and father I said hello!”

“I will.” He said, tucking his bag back into his robes. The girl smiled at him. He gave her a small nod in return.

* * *

Almost four months later, Bartemius Crouch was patrolling the Hogwarts library, which was packed with more students than ever, owing to their upcoming exams. Most of them sat huddled in groups, poring over textbooks or quietly quizzing one another. One particular table, however; was causing a bit of a disturbance. The table in question seated two girls—one of which Bartemius vaguely recognized but was unable to place, and the other which he was unfortunately _very_ able to recognize. Rita Skeeter was two years younger than him, but every student at Hogwarts was familiar with her, thanks to her extreme personality and penchant for causing trouble. Wherever drama reared its head, Rita Skeeter was sure to be there.

“Ladies, this is a _library_. For studying, I’m sure you are aware?”

“Sorry, Crouch.” Rita winked unabashedly at him. The other girl, who Bartemius now recognized as the girl he had seen in Madame Malkin’s over the summer, was wearing Hufflepuff robes, her face reddening slightly.

“Sorry. Rita was just…” the girl trailed off as Bartemius raised his eyebrows. “Well, she was just saying that Gideon Prewett told her—”

“Shh!” Rita cut her off sharply, flapping her hands. “That’s top-secret, remember?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Right, well. Anyway, sorry for the noise.”

Bartemius nodded curtly at them. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

Just then, Rita leaped up and slammed her book shut, causing a group of girls sitting two tables away to jump.

“Blimey, we’ve got to get to History of Magic!”

“Right, coming!” The girl turned back to Bartemius. “Um, sorry about the noise. I would tell you it won’t happen again but, knowing Rita, you know…” Her nose scrunched up a little when she smiled and he noticed a single dimple on her left cheek.

“Perhaps you should keep better company, Miss…”

She stuck her hand out. “Elsie Bagman. Well, Elizabeth, but everyone calls me Elsie.”

“Elsie!” Rita hissed. “Would you hurry up? Binns’ll have my head if I’m late again this week!”

“Oh, sorry, I have to go,” Elsie said, motioning for Rita to go on without her. “Nice meeting you—what did you say your name was?”

“Bartemius.” He shook her hand. “Crouch.”

“Oh, Barty Crouch, that’s right—you’re a prefect!" Elsie smiled brightly. "I saw you in Madame Malkin’s before term started!”

“Bartemius.” He said stiffly.

Before he could tell her that he’d seen her as well, Rita stamped over and grabbed Elsie by the wrist.

“Right—have to go. Nice to meet you, Barty!” Elsie called over her shoulder.

“ _Bartemius_.”

She grinned momentarily before she and Rita disappeared around the doorway, her blonde hair whipping out of sight.

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, Rita and Elsie sat across from one another, Elsie working on an essay for Professor Dumbledore and Rita keenly observing everyone from behind a copy of The Daily Prophet. Rita was a Ravenclaw, but sat at the Hufflepuff table, which she insisted had the best view of everyone.

“Elsie!”

“Yeah?” Elsie asked, without looking up from her parchment. “What?” She asked, when she saw Rita staring at her, looking both surprised and devious.

“...That Slytherin boy has eyes for you!”

“What? What Slytherin boy?” Elsie looked nervously over to where the Slytherins sat.

“No, don’t _look!”_ Rita whispered forcefully. “The boy from the _library_! He’s been staring at you all morning! Missed his mouth with the bacon!” She added conspiratorially.

“Oh, stop it, Rita, he has not.”

“I’m serious!” She whined. “Come on, when did I ever make up a story like that?”

Elsie’s narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms.

“Well—not about you, anyway.”

Elsie raised her eyebrows.

“Well not _recently_.” She said, gesturing animatedly with her hands and nearly knocking over Joyce Bell's goblet of pumpkin juice. “It’s true, really, he hasn’t taken his eyes off you!”

“Don’t be silly, Rita, he’s a prefect. And a fifth year.”

“And he’s a _boy_.”

“So?”

“ _So_ , his brains don’t live in his fifth-year head, and they certainly don’t live in his prefect badge. Unless maybe it’s pinned to his trousers.” She added with a smirk.

“Rita Skeeter!” Elsie went Remembrall red and didn’t speak for the remainder of breakfast, busying herself instead with her parchment and ink.

Rita shrugged but couldn’t help noticing her friend’s eyes flitting over to the Slytherin table every few moments, and how this interestingly coincided with Elsie knocking over her inkpot four different times.

“This is ridiculous.” She muttered after mopping up spilled ink for the fifth time. “I’m going to class.”

She stood up quickly, knocking a jug of orange juice over, properly soaking Rita and at least three other Hufflepuffs. Any hopes she had of a quiet exit were now dashed, especially with Rita now shrieking. It felt like the entire Great Hall was staring at her as she tried unsuccessfully to soak up the mess with napkins—she didn’t know any cleaning spells and the sodden napkins were dripping cold juice onto her robes.

_“Scourgify.”_ A voice spoke quietly behind her.

The juice evaporated immediately, leaving an empty jug and the pile of wet napkins which were starting to fall apart. Rita’s sudden silence told Elsie exactly who the voice belonged to and, when she turned around to face him, her stomach gave a funny lurch. Despite the less than ideal circumstances, she smiled.

“Hello, Barty.”

“Miss Bagman,” he said, ignoring this new nickname she had given him. His tone was serious, but Elsie could swear she saw a spark of humor in his eyes. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”

“Oh, just class. I know it’s a bit early,” she added hastily, as he raised an eyebrow, “but, well, Rita was telling me that…well, she was bothering me, that’s all.” (Behind her, Rita gave an indignant gasp.)

“I understand.” He gave her a small smile. “I won’t keep you then, I have to go as well. Good day, Miss Bagman.” He nodded at her and turned, striding past the long tables.

Avoiding Rita’s gaze, Elsie quickly shoved the parchment and ink into her bag and took off after him, taking care not to look like she was chasing him (even though she was, of course.)

“Where are you headed, then?” she called.

“The Library.” He answered her without turning around. “I have a free period before Arithmancy.”

“Oh! Same floor as Transfiguration! That’s where I’m headed.”

Almost imperceptibly, the tall, sleek boy slowed his stride to let the blonde, curly-haired girl catch up with him. They walked together in silence for a couple of minutes before they reached the Transfiguration classroom.

“Right, well, here you are, then. Have a good class, Miss Bagman.”

He turned and walked away and she stood in front of the heavy wooden classroom door. She hesitated for a moment before running to catch up with him. He looked at her with mild surprise.

“It really is a bit early for class. I was thinking I might study for a bit.” She said.

He sighed. “Come on, then.”

She grinned and bounded after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It's been a hot second since I posted a chapter, but here it is! Writing teenage Barty was a little harder than I thought because he seems like one of those characters that was born as an adult, lol. Anyway, hope everyone is staying safe and sane!
> 
> Thanks again for reading!  
> Xx LimeGreenSockFt xX


	4. Lemon Tarts

His feet weren’t even out of the fireplace before she laid into him.

“ _One_ thing.”

“Elsie—”

“ _One thing!_ I ask you to come to _ONE_ thing _all_ year!”

“Of course I _wanted_ to come, but I’ve been swamped at the office, we’re so—”

“ _Busy?”_ She shrieked. “Do _not_ say the word busy to me, Bartemius Crouch! _Busy_ is raising our son! _Busy_ is cooking and cleaning and fielding owls from Rita Skeeter _and_ baking lemon tarts for _your_ birthday to which you can’t even be bothered to SHOW UP!”

She froze suddenly, looked horrified. Wheeling around, she dashed into the kitchen and wrenched open the oven door. Black smoke billowed out and the acrid smell of burnt dough filled the air.

 _“My tarts!”_ She wailed. Without thinking, she reached in to grab them and burnt her hand. She pulled it back quickly, eyes watering from the stinging pain.

Barty waved his wand and the blackened tarts floated out of the oven and hovered in the corner of the kitchen, sliding into the trash bin one by one.

“Leave it,” she said, still clutching her hand. “I’ll take care of it. Just—just go upstairs.”

“At least let me have a look at that.”

Barty reached for her hand but she jerked away.

“It’s _fine_ , just _leave it_.”

He flicked his wand and a thin blue stream of fabric wrapped itself around her hand like a ribbon.

“You’ll still need some Murtlap Essence, but that should help with the—”

_BANG_

A frying pan went whizzing by his head and smashed into the wall. He looked at her in disbelief.

“I said _LEAVE IT_! Why can’t you do anything I ask?” Elsie sobbed, flinging down the tea towel she was holding and storming upstairs.

Winky appeared with a small pop and surveyed the mess in the kitchen. Shaking her head, she looked sadly up at Barty.

“You is not to worry, Master Barty. Winky is cleaning up the mess and making new tarts. You is going upstairs to talk to mistress.”

“She wants to be alone, Winky,” he said tiredly. “I think it’s best to leave her be.”

“Begging your pardon, Master. Winky is meaning no disrespect, but Mistress is very sad. She is needing you, Master.”

* * *

Two minutes later, Barty stood outside the bathroom door, where Elsie had locked herself in and was quietly sniffling.

“Elizabeth, may I come in?”

 _“_ No _.”_

Barty sighed and massaged his temples, warding off the beginnings of a headache. Something was going on—this wasn’t the Elsie he knew. She was cross with him at times, but he had never seen her quite this upset before.

“This isn’t like you.” He said.

“You don’t know _what’s_ like me because you’re never _here_ anymore!”

“If you would just let me in, we could discuss this.”

“I said no!”

“You are aware that I could open this door, yes?”

“Try it,” she called through the door, “and see if I don’t hex you straight in the bollocks!”

“You are acting like a fourth year, Elizabeth, be reasonable.”

That seemed to have done the trick. Elsie flew out of the bathroom looking rather demented with mascara halfway down her cheeks.

“Be _reasonable?_ Are you _kidding_ me _?”_

 _“_ I only meant—”

“I _know_ what you meant!” She exploded. “I’m emotional, hysterical, _unreasonable._ Unreasonable for wanting to see the man I’m married to once in a while—unreasonable for wanting the father of my child to _care_ about us!”

Silence echoed between them.

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”

“Look, just don’t—I am so sick of hearing that, over and over! When are you going to stop apologizing?” She demanded.

“…When I no longer have something to apologize for.” He said quietly.

Elsie rounded on him.

“This is you trying to make me feel sorry for you, I expect? I won’t have it this time, Bartemius, absolutely not!”

She stalked back into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

“I _am_ very sorry, Elizabeth, whether you choose to believe it or not.” He said through the door. “If you wish to be alone I understand, but there is no reason for you to stay locked up in there. I’ll sleep downstairs tonight.”

Just as he had turned to walk downstairs, the bathroom door opened again—just a sliver—casting a triangular patch of light onto the dark upstairs floor. She didn’t seem to be coming out, so Barty carefully pushed the door open. Elsie was sitting on the black and white checkered tile with her back pressed up against the cabinets.

“Is it me?” She sniffled.

“What?” Barty knelt down beside her.

“Is it me? Is it…do you feel like you’re trapped in this marriage because it looks more respectable for a candidate for Minister to have never been divorced? Because,” her voice broke, “I’ll stay with you. I just need to know, I just need you to tell me.”

Bartemius looked at her with a mixture of shock and confusion painted on his face.

“Elizabeth…” He said bleakly.

“You can tell me, it’s alright. I—I won’t be angry with you.”

“ _Elsie_. He said forcefully, “I am, as I have always been, very much in love with you.

She put a hand over her mouth and began to cry in earnest, tears pouring down her cheeks as he pulled her into his arms. There was a powerful ache in his heart. He held her for what felt like an eternity before she pulled away, sniffling and wiping her eyes.

“I’m sorry I wasn't here this evening.”

“It’s not about that, not really.” She gulped shakily. “I’m sorry I haven’t told you, but I...I was afraid—” She broke off, unable to speak for crying so hard.

“Elizabeth,” He said in a low voice, “what is going on?”

Unable to meet the concern in his gaze, Elsie stared at the yellow wallpaper.

“I’m pregnant.”

Barty raised up quickly, accidentally banging his head on the cabinet.

“I…Merlin, you...how long have you known?” He asked faintly.

“Not long—a few weeks, maybe. I don’t want to tell anyone yet. I mean, at my age…”

“Of course.” Barty still looked stunned. “We’ll set you up an appointment with a midwife. Twycross knows a very reputable one—helped deliver his grandson."

A sudden realization dawned on him and he sank down beside her with a heavy sigh.

“You weren’t upset about the dinner, you were upset that I still haven’t learned to be a good father.”

“You _are_ a good father, Bartemius. You’ve just missed so much. I was afraid…I can’t do it on my own, Barty, not again.”

Her words carried the painful ring of truth.

“I have certainly made my share of mistakes, Elsie. If I could do things over, I would. You will never know how sorry I am that I did not spend more time with Barty when he was a boy and I’m sure I will regret that to my dying day. But this…Elizabeth, this is our second chance, and I intend to atone for my failures.”

Even as he said this, a light flashed in his eyes—an excitement that Elsie hadn’t seen in him for years.

“We’ll fix up the downstairs bedroom for his nursery and I’ll apply for time off, so I can be there when he’s born. And I swear to you, Elsie, I will be there for all of his birthdays.”

“And if it’s a girl?” Elsie asked, pleased at his enthusiasm.

“Well, if she’s a girl, I suppose I shall have to brush up on my tea party skills.”

She smiled and leaned into him, feeling his chest rumble with laughter.

“Are we all done with the hysterics, then?”

Elsie rolled her eyes.

“Yes, all done, but check back tomorrow and I’m sure I’ll have some more for you.”

“As is your right.” He said graciously. “Now,” he helped Elsie to her feet, “it’s getting rather late and I suspect a tart might do you some good.”

“I burned them, remember?” She said grumpily.

“Winky’s fixed some more. I know they aren’t nearly as good as yours, but you _are_ eating for two now, Elizabeth.”

His feigned pompousness made her laugh and she let him lead her downstairs, where Winky was waiting with a fresh tray of tarts and a smear of lemon just above her eyebrow. Bowing deeply, the elf Disapparated, leaving Elsie and Barty alone once again.

Despite their exhaustion, the two of them stayed there in the oven-warmed kitchen, talking, laughing, and eating lemon tarts well into the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have such a soft spot for Barty Crouch. (Don't ask me why, I have no idea lol.)  
> Anyway, thank you for reading! I wrote most of this while fending off a million annoying bugs swarming my computer screen--guess that's what you get for writing at night.  
> I hope you're all having a good week and I'll see you soon!
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFt xX


	5. Weeds and Wildflowers

It was late May in Argyll, Scotland—the perfect time between the cool of spring and the heat of summer. In a week’s time, Elsie Bagman would be graduating from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which usually meant a mad dash to complete final assignments and study for exams. In Elsie’s case, however; she was quite relaxed and very much prepared for the end of term. Professor Slughorn had offered her an apprenticeship at his apothecary starting in September and most of her remaining classes were electives with a significantly easier course load.

She did have a Herbology practical exam, as well as a term paper due for Professor Dumbledore, but, all in all, things were blessedly calm for her. This is why, when Barty owled her with the news that he would be in Scotland during the last week of May, she wrote him back and invited him to dinner at the Bagman’s. Professor Sprout very kindly agreed to let her visit her parents over the weekend, even allowing her to use the Floo Network in the staffroom.

Elsie was thrilled at the prospect of seeing Barty. Normally he was quite busy—he had just been promoted to Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic and was constantly preparing for some new report or business meeting. Barty had graduated two years previously and had advanced very quickly through the ranks at the Ministry of Magic. Of course, this meant he and Elsie weren’t able to see each other as often as they would have liked, but they owled one another nearly every day, and he always managed to visit her at least once on the holidays.

Barty was slightly less excited for their reunion than Elsie, only because he had never met her parents and was quite keen to make a good impression. Privately, he had hoped to be introduced to them in passing first—visiting their Fionnphort house seemed rather daunting.

* * *

He arrived a few hours before sunset and Elsie ran outside to greet him.

“ _Barty_!” She squealed, flinging herself into his arms.

Barty threw his trunk aside and caught her, kissing her squarely on the mouth. He pulled away when he realized that Mr. and Mrs. Bagman were watching them from the porch, as well as Elsie’s younger brother Ludo, and he went slightly pink, embarrassed to have shown such abandon.

A tiny, old House Elf—so old it was difficult to distinguish his wrinkles from his smile—snapped his fingers and transported Barty’s trunk inside the house.

“Welby is happy to be seeing his young mistress,” the old elf croaked, beaming happily up at Elsie, “We has been missing you while you is at school.”

He repeated some variation of the same sentiment every time Elsie saw him (he was becoming quite forgetful), but Elsie smiled and reached for his hand as everyone made their way inside.

The exterior of the house was rather simple—a large, white, one-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch and root cellar—but the interior was decorated beautifully. Paintings and tapestries adorned the walls, all reflecting a Gaelic theme.

Welby showed Barty and Elsie to the sitting room and conjured up a large bottle of mead which he placed on the table.

“Welby is leaving young mistress and her friend here. He will be fetching you when it is time for supper.” He said, bowing low and Disapparating with a snap of his long fingers.

Elsie sank down onto a comfortable-looking sofa and motioned for Barty to join her. He sat beside her, looking as awkward as he felt, his hands clasped together in his lap until Elsie intertwined her fingers with his.

“They’re going to love you,” she whispered, kissing him on the cheek, “don’t be nervous.”

“Aren’t you?” He asked. He was uncharacteristically pale. “What if they don’t approve?”

“I can’t see how it would matter.” Elsie shrugged.

“It matters.” He said grimly.

“Not to me. Besides, they aren’t the ones dating you, are they?” She nudged him playfully. “Oh, look, let me show you one of our old photo albums!”

Barty couldn’t help but smile as she summoned a black, leather-bound book filled with pictures of the Bagmans; baby Elsie toddling towards a smiling Welby, Mr. and Mrs. Bagman standing next to a cake with animated frosting that read, “Congratulations Margaret and Patrick!”, Ludo zooming around on a broomstick, presumably not much older than he was now.

Elsie kept up a running commentary as they flipped through the book, telling Barty stories about their vacation to Norway, her grandparents, and the time Ludo grew a second head after drinking one of their father’s experimental potions.

After what seemed like only a few minutes (but must have been much longer judging by the setting sun outside), Welby appeared once again and informed Elsie and Barty that it was time to eat.

* * *

As it turned out, there was little to worry about. Supper that evening was a peaceful affair. Elsie’s parents were very welcoming and friendly—not at all like his own family, who could be quite aloof at times. The Bagmans were a very well-respected pureblood family, but Barty found their modest home and demeanor refreshing—nothing like some of the families of his friends. They were, of course, impressed with Barty: his high-ranking Ministry job and how many N.E.W.T.s he had earned (twelve.) The Bagman’s were quite taken with him, although Elsie’s brother less so—he thought Barty was stuffy and boring but, then again, compared to Ludo, everyone _was_ stuffy and boring. Overall, however, Barty was quite relieved by how smoothly the meal passed.

After all the food was cleared and the plates put away, the four of them made their way to the sitting room (excluding Ludo, who retreated to his bedroom, insisting he had a very important project to work on, even though they all knew he’d just be polishing his broom.)

Several yawns and half an hour of small talk later, Mr. Bagman suggested everyone turn in for the night. He and Mrs. Bagman disappeared down the hallway while Elsie showed Barty to his room on the opposite side of the house.

“Ludo’s right next door to you,” Elsie said quietly once they were outside the guest bedroom door. “He can be rather loud, but that’s just as well for tonight.”

Barty looked at her strangely and she continued, pressing a finger to her lips.

“There’s something I want to show you. I’ll come and get you after midnight—don’t go to sleep.”

He raised his eyebrows and she shushed him, even though he hadn’t made any sound.

“You’ll like it,” she whispered, stretching up to kiss him, “trust me.”

* * *

At six minutes past midnight, Elsie tiptoed down the hall to the guest bedroom and led Barty back to her room. Silently, she climbed out of her open window, beckoning for him to follow.

Outside, the grass was a brilliant sparkling green in the pale light of the full moon. Stars twinkled above them as Elsie pulled Barty along past trees and streams and fallen leaves. Finally, when the house was no longer visible behind them, they reached a small clearing. Three hoops at either end of the field revealed it to be a makeshift Quidditch pitch, but it was overgrown with a smattering of weeds.

At the edge of the clearing sat a small shed, a few feet away from the goalposts. Elsie performed a simple charm on the dewy grass and the droplets floated upward and vanished, leaving the ground dry and soft. She plopped down unceremoniously and tugged Barty onto the grass beside her. He looked over at her and she recognized a look of deep affection in his eyes.

Sighing, she leaned back against the shed. The air was warm and fragrant in that way that it can only be after the sun has set in the summertime. Tall rush grass was swaying softly in the breeze and twinkling green fireflies danced and weaved through the field of flowers, blinking softly against the velvet blue backdrop of the sky.

“Well, do you think I made a good impression, then?”

Elsie glanced over at Barty, who was plucking the petals from a daisy. She shrugged noncommittally and his face fell.

“They don’t like me?” He asked, looking shocked.

“No, no—they do!” She said hastily, “I was just joking, I’m sorry. They like you very much. Mother thinks you’re charming—loves how polite you are—and father couldn’t be more pleased that I’ve ‘brought home a right proper young man.’”

He breathed a visible sigh of relief and scowled at her.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, Elizabeth.”

“I’m sorry,” she tried unsuccessfully to hide her grin. “You’re not used to being unimpressive, are you?”

“No,” he admitted, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I suppose most people do think I’m—well— _a right proper young man_.”

Elsie laughed and bumped his shoulder.

“You _are_ very proper, _Bartemius_.”

He rolled his eyes. “You straightened that right out, though, didn’t you?”

“Well, there’s still room for improvement, of course, but I think you’ve made great progress.” She sniffed and sucked in her cheeks, doing a very good impersonation of Barty’s mother.

He snorted and plucked a long blade of grass, examining it between his fingers.

“It’s beautiful here.” He said.

Elsie smiled. “I used to sneak out and just lay here for hours. It’s my favorite place, but only when it’s like this—nighttime, summer, everyone asleep. No Ludo zooming around on his broomstick, showing off.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve never brought anyone else here before.”

“I’m honored.” Although he said the words with the same dry, sarcasm-laced inflection that Elsie was so familiar with, his eyes betrayed his sincerity.

“I’m glad you’re here.” She murmured, slipping her hand in his and laying her head on his shoulder. Barty stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

They sat quietly together for a few minutes, the still night air perforated by the chirping crickets.

“Elizabeth…”

Elsie looked over at Barty and was shocked to see how pale he looked and how clammy his hands were.

“I…this isn’t quite how I envisioned it, but…” He took a deep breath and seemed to gather himself. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she breathed a sigh of relief, “You had me nervous for a moment, I thought something serious was going on!”

He stared at her.

“There _is_ something, isn’t there?” She swallowed.

“Yes.” He took her hand. She could hear her own pulse. The crickets’ chirping suddenly seemed to stop.

“Elizabeth Bagman…will you marry me?”

Elsie froze. Her heart seemed to have stopped beating.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” She asked breathlessly. “I think I’ve just had a heart attack.”

He laughed, his mouth twitching into the half-smile that she had come to love so much.

“Will you marry me, Elsie?”

It was all too much. Sitting here in a field of flowers with him, bathed in the ethereal light of the moon, the glittering constellations above them. And Barty. His face swam before her as her eyes filled with tears.

“Yes.” She whispered. “Yes, of course I will!”

He beamed. Elsie’s eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Barty, we’re getting _married_!”

“We’re getting married.” He grinned.

Squealing excitedly, she launched herself at him, knocking him flat on his back in the grass. He was winded, turning his laugh into a breathless wheeze.

Elsie rested her chin on his chest and gazed starry-eyed at him. Reaching up, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and cupped her cheek gently.

“I love you, Bartemius Crouch.” She whispered.

He answered her by pulling her into his arms and kissing her in the midnight weeds and wildflowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the end of this chapter first, using pen and paper in the middle of church (make of that what you will.) I was inspired by the song “Fairy Dance” from the 2003 Peter Pan. It always makes me think of running around at night when the air is thick and warm like it is in the Texas summertime and I couldn’t resist writing a chapter so I could live vicariously through Barty and Elsie, lol.  
> As always, thank you SO MUCH for reading! 
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFt xX


	6. Room 423

“Where is he?” Elsie flew into Alastor Moody’s office, breathless and pale. Seven-year-old Barty Jr. was trailing behind her, seemingly oblivious and happily taking in the bustling excitement of the Ministry.

Moody stood up and raised his hands, looking disconcertingly calm.

“Now, don’t panic, Elizabeth, every Auror in this office has— _”_

_“Alastor!”_

“He's at St. Mungo’s.”

“What happened?” She gasped.

“Ah, Barty was interrogating that piece of filth Karkaroff. Me and Dawlish brought him in this morning—been hiding out up in the mountains, trying to evade capture. He managed to get John’s wand off him and hexed old Barty in the chest and bollocks—er, sorry. The…nether region.”

“Oh my God,” she covered her mouth, lurching a bit as though she might be sick. “I have to go.”

“Now, wait a minute, you can’t go making a scene, this is classified—and what about your boy?”

Elsie was already halfway down the hall.

“Owl Rita! Tell her I’ll be back tonight!” She called behind her. Her boy stood in the doorway, looking equal parts impressed and terrified at Alastor Moody’s grisly appearance.

“Sit down, boyo.” Moody heaved a great sigh, motioning to a chair draped with his traveling cloak.

The young boy did as he was told, taking in the surroundings with awe.

“What’s that?” He asked, pointing to an object that seemed particularly interesting.

“It’s a foe glass. Let’s me keep an eye on my enemies.”

“Cool!” His eyes lit up and Moody was reminded of both Barty and Elizabeth.

The Auror turned his attention to the report he had been working on before Elsie burst in, but he couldn’t concentrate. He could feel the boy staring at him, no doubt wondering about all of his injuries.

“All right, then, out with it.” He set the parchment down with a dull thump and raised an eyebrow. “Go on and ask me.”

“How did—what happened to your face?” He asked in hushed tones.

So Moody told him. Gave him the whole story, complete with all the grisly details. Elizabeth probably wouldn’t be too happy with him, but he was a firm believer in not sugar-coating the truth: it was a dangerous world they lived in. Constant vigilance. Besides, the youngster was curious and, truth be told, reminded Moody of himself as a lad.

“…And there you have it. Not a pretty tale.”

The boy’s eyes were wide and he seemed to think for a moment about what he had just heard.

He was quiet for a moment. “…Cool.”

Moody grinned. “You might make a fair Auror, kid. Ever thought about it?”

* * *

There was a long line at the reception desk of St. Mungo’s. The seconds ticked by like hours until Elsie could hardly stand it. When she finally reached the front, a smiling young witch with black hair and bright red lipstick asked how she could help her.

“I’m here to see a…patient. Barty Crouch—Bartemius.”

“Yes ma’am, he’ll be in room 423,” she consulted a list in front of her. “That’s on the 4th floor.”

“For long-term residents?” Elsie gasped.

“No, no, I’m sorry—I mean, yes, it is, but it also holds our spell damage patients.”

Elsie clutched her heart and took a shaky breath. “Oh, thank goodness. Thank you.”

It took all of her effort not to sprint down the hall. She settled for an uneven, run-walk pace and five minutes (and three flights of stairs) later, found herself standing outside a lightly-colored wood grain door with the number 423 engraved on a copper plaque.

Feeling apprehensive, she raised her fist and knocked softly. No sooner had she done this than the door opened and a squat and cheerful-looking Healer poked her head out. A small tag with the name “Woody” was pinned to her apron.

“Hello, dearie! What can I do for you?”

“I...my husband, Barty—he—” She couldn’t get her words to form a rational, coherent sentence.

“Oh yes, Mrs. Crouch! Yes, come in, come in!” The Healer smiled. She gave Elsie a distinctly warm impression—almost motherly. “I’ll just pop out to give you two some privacy, yes?”

“Thank you. I...thank you.”

“Not to worry, dear.” The Healer patted her hand kindly. “You go right on in.”

As the Healer bustled away, Elsie stepped into the room. It was rather sterile-looking; all white and smelling of antiseptic. She paused just inside the door. She had been in such a hurry to get here, but suddenly she was afraid to see him. A million thoughts raced through her head. _What if his memory had been modified and he didn’t remember her? What if he looked like Alastor? What if he was—_ No. The thought was too terrible even to consider. Taking a deep breath, she turned the corner.

Elsie wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it certainly was not to see her husband propped up in his hospital bed drinking coffee and reading The Daily Prophet. He looked up from the paper, his mild surprise turning to mild panic as she flung herself at him.

“Bartemius!”

“Elizabeth,” his voice was muffled by her stranglehold, “honestly.”

“Are you alright?” She asked, pulling back to examine him.

“Occupational hazard. It’s nothing.” He waved a hand dismissively. Perhaps it was Elsie’s imagination, but he seemed to wince slightly.

“Nothing?” She asked, incredulously, “Two stunners to the chest and a hex to the…well…”

He went slightly red.

“I’m fine, Elsie. The Healers tell me it’s mild—nothing that will cause permanent damage.”

“Thank heavens,” she breathed, “When Alastor said you’d—you’d been—that he got your wand...” she shook her head, as though warding off the memory.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t ideal. With any luck, they’ll have me out of here in an hour or so. I need to get back to the office.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Elsie said fiercely, her hands on her hips. “That is exactly what got you into this mess in the first place—today was supposed to be your day off, or don’t you remember?”

“Alright, alright.” He held up a hand. “Don’t fuss.”

“Don’t fuss?” Her eyes were the size of Quaffles. “Do you have any idea how scared I’ve been? Barty, Frank Longbottom’s head appeared in our fireplace and told me you’d been attacked by a _Death Eater!_ I thought you were…” she trailed off as tears welled up in her eyes.

“Oh, Elsie,” Barty laughed, pulling her onto the bed and kissing her forehead. “I am _fine_. A couple of stunners and a bump on the head, that’s all.”

She leaned into him and breathed in his familiar, comforting smell. He was warm, even in the cold hospital room and she shivered inadvertently.

“Promise me we’ll be fine,” she whispered, her green eyes still watery. “Promise me nothing bad will happen.”

“I promise,” he said quietly.

* * *

When Bartemius woke, he was startled to find a pair of giant brown eyes staring back at him. Winky’s nose was nearly pressed to his and she smiled widely at him.

“How is you feeling, Master Barty?”

“I’m fine, thank you Winky. Where is Mrs. Crouch?”

“She is fetching young Master Barty, sir. He is wanting to see you.”

At this exact moment, the door to Bartemius’ room at St. Mungo’s swung open and Elsie walked in, holding their son by the hand. As soon as he saw his father, Barty pounced on him (not unlike Elsie’s earlier reaction) and Bartemius caught him, wincing slightly.

“Father!” Barty peered excitedly at him. “Mother said you were cursed by a bad man!”

“Hexed. But I’m fine. And your _mother_ shouldn’t be worrying you.” He gave Elsie a stern look over his son’s head, to which she threw her hands up and mouthed, “ _Well?_ ”

“Are you bleeding? Do you have a scar? Did you lose a _leg?_ ” Barty asked eagerly.

“Merlin’s sake, Elsie, what have you been telling the boy?”

“I…left him with Alastor for a few hours.”

“Ah,” He rolled his eyes, “That explains it then.” Turning to Barty, he ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’m fine, I assure you. No scars and no missing limbs.”

“Oh,” Barty said, looking slightly disappointed. After a slight pause, he asked, “Are you sure, though?”

His father gave a hearty laugh. “Quite sure.”

Later that evening, Elsie and Bartemius talked softly while Barty Jr. lay stretched out across two hospital chairs, sound asleep.

“Healer Woody says there’s no reason I can’t come home tomorrow if there’s no change overnight.”

“Thank heavens,” Elsie said. “Mind you, I don’t want you going back to work for a few days.”

Barty frowned and opened his mouth to object but Elsie kissed him before he could protest.

“Please, Bartemius. For me. For _us_.”

He nodded, looking resigned. Elsie smiled and glanced over at their sleeping son.

“Oh, by the way, it seems your son is now quite keen on an exciting, dangerous Ministry career ‘ _just like father._ ’”

Bartemius chuckled. “I imagine he was hoping I’d have a few more battle scars.”

“Yes, he was quite impressed with Alastor, I think." Elsie grinned. If we’re not careful, we’re going to have an Auror on our hands.”

“I’m not sure I approve of Alastor Moody watching him.”

“I did tell him to owl Rita but, in retrospect, I suppose I should have known he wouldn’t. He can’t stand her.”

“And rightly so.” Bartemius muttered.

“I know, I know,” Elsie said, waving away his familiar complaint. “But she’s so good with Barty, and he loves staying with her. _And_ ,” she continued, raising an eyebrow, “None of this would have happened had you not gone and gotten yourself ambushed. Why didn’t you let the Aurors handle it? Really, you ought to be more careful.”

“Yes, this is clearly my favorite leisure activity—spending the afternoon in the hospital.” He said drily.

Elsie sighed and sat down beside him on the bed.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just…if anything had happened to you—”

“But it didn’t.” He cut her off, his voice firm but gentle.

“I just worry about you.” She said softly.

“I know.” Barty summoned a large quilt from a pile of neatly folded blankets and it draped itself delicately over Elsie. She snuggled closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder, her cold hand finding its way to his warm one. 

Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the Restorative Potion he had taken earlier or simply the result of a very stressful day finally catching up with him, but he was suddenly exhausted.

“You should rest now,” Elsie whispered, running a hand through his greying hair. “But don’t you ever scare me like that again, Bartemius. We need you too much.”

Barty gazed drowsily down at his wife. Her face was lined with soft wrinkles and her hair was beginning to grey, but she looked every bit as lovely as the day he first met her in Madam Malkin’s.

Barty’s last thought before his eyes closed was of how beautiful she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I’ve been having a major motivation crisis the last few weeks, but I haven’t forgotten about Elsie and Barty! I’ve had this idea in my head for a while (along with another St. Mungo-related chapter that I’ll post at some point.) I’m a total sucker for the hurt-comfort genre, so I couldn’t resist!  
> Anyway, thanks again for reading and a HUGE thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments so far—it honestly means so much to me. You guys are the best!
> 
> See you soon!  
> Xx LimeGreenSockFt xX


	7. Yule Tide

It was nearly Christmas and preparations for the Yule Ball were well underway. Thoughts of all else had vanished and every waking moment was filled with talk of dresses, dates, and Beautification Potions, and the Hogwarts corridors were filled with packs of giggling girls and the red-faced boys anxiously trying to work up the courage to ask them out.

Elsie Bagman and Barty Crouch were no exception to this. (And neither were any of their friends—Sullivan Travers had been in a foul mood ever since he'd been rejected by a gorgeous Ravenclaw and Sharon Abbott was so nervous that Professor Flitwick had to send her to Madam Pomfrey for a Calming Draught.)

Elsie herself was a nervous wreck. There was only a week and a half left until the dance, and three weeks had gone by without a word from Barty. She told all of her friends from the start that she didn’t expect him to ask her, saying things like, “He’s two years older than me, and he _is_ a Slytherin, after all.”

She said all the right things, as Rita shrewdly pointed out but, regardless of what she tried to convince others (or herself) of, Elsie was quite disappointed that Barty hadn’t asked her. In fact, he had barely spoken to her at all in the last few weeks—it was almost as if he was avoiding her. Her normally cheerful demeanor had turned moody and she even snapped at two second years who were holding hands in the common room.

For his part, Barty would have liked nothing more than to go to the Ball with Elsie, but he just couldn’t quite bring himself to ask her. For one thing, she was two years younger than he was, and, more importantly, he wasn’t altogether keen on facing the contempt of Slytherin House when everyone found out he was going with a Hufflepuff. _Especially_ considering the fact that he had, surprisingly, been asked out by Glenda Carrow, a pureblood sixth year and, even more surprisingly, turned her down.

Of course, Elsie didn’t know any of this. And, as much as she tried to pretend otherwise, she desperately wanted Barty to ask her to the Ball. It was all she thought about. She’d even been _dreaming_ about it. She had considered asking him herself, as Rita suggested, but the possibility that he might say no—that he was already going with someone else or, worse still, that he only wanted to be friends—was too terrible to consider. She envied Rita’s ability to say and do whatever she wanted with no fear of the consequences—presumably how she ended up with Gilderoy Lockhart as her date. (Generally speaking, Rita despised his arrogance and self-obsession, but he was the most handsome boy at Hogwarts and she insisted on having the best arm candy.)

As it turned out, and surprising absolutely no one, Rita’s brash opinions were not limited to herself. After three weeks of watching Barty and Elsie sidestep one another, and yet another night of her miserable moping friend, she decided she’d had quite enough and took matters into her own hands. 

The next morning, she marched straight up to Barty in the corridor and crossed her arms.

“Barty Crouch, are you going to ask Elsie to the Ball or not?” Her voice echoed brassily through the hallway.

Barty flushed and whirled around to make sure no one had heard before pulling her into the empty Charms classroom.

“I am a _Prefect,_ Rita, you cannot go around shouting things like that. It’s completely inappropriate.”

Rita rolled her eyes and studied him expectantly.

“Well?” She demanded.

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to ask her?” Rita crossed her arms.

“That is none of your business,” he replied, looking affronted. A flush had begun to creep up his neck.

“Three boys have asked her already, you know.”

“I’ll have you know that—” he stopped suddenly. “What did you say?”

“Mm-hmm.” She raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Surely you knew _someone_ would ask her, yes?”

“Well, I…really it isn’t…I…” he trailed off, clearly flustered. “I suppose I hadn’t considered that she might be in such high demand.”

“She _is_ quite beautiful,” Rita replied smugly, “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I’ve noticed.” He said quietly.

She almost felt sorry for him.

“Ask her,” Rita said matter-of-factly, “But you’d better get a move on. She won’t wait forever.”

* * *

Elsie Bagman was one of the only non-Slytherins that chose to regularly spend time in the dungeons. Most Hufflepuffs (and Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, for that matter) dreaded having to attend their classes in dark potions room. Elsie, however, had a particular talent for potion-making and actually quite enjoyed the solitude—the cool greenish light and the _drip-drip-drip_ of lake water. She could often be found downstairs in the evenings, with her warmest sweater, experimenting with potion ingredients and brewing instructions.

Thursday night was no exception. Elsie was perfecting a Wit-Sharpening Solution for Rita, (who had promised her that she wouldn’t use it on their upcoming exams, but was suspiciously concerned with how long it was taking to brew.) She was working through a particularly tricky set of instructions and was so focused on them that she had missed the entire evening meal without realizing it.

It wasn’t altogether uncommon for Elsie to show up late for dinner, but her complete absence was unusual—a fact that was clearly noted by Barty, who (as Rita slyly observed) spent the entire hour watching for her. He was barely able to eat at all with his eyes constantly snapping back and forth between the Hufflepuff table and the doors. Finally, when she was unable to stand his discomfort any longer, Rita scribbled a note on her napkin and, with a sharp flick of her wand, sent it zooming over to the Slytherin table, where it landed gently in his mashed potatoes.

_Check the dungeons._

_-RS_

His brow furrowed as he read the missive, and he looked around until he saw her. She gave him her best encouraging smile (a painful feat, given her inherent dislike for him) and jerked her head towards the doors, indicating that he should go now if he wanted to catch her. He must have understood because he stood up, slipped the note in his pocket, and muttered something to the boy sitting beside him.

* * *

Because he left the Great Hall early, Barty was able to avoid the stampede of students that filled the hall after dinner and make his way unseen down the stone steps to the dungeons. It was no great mystery which room Elsie was in—the door was open and a pale yellow light seeped into the hallway. He could hear her singing some sort of Scottish folk song.

Barty stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her pour a precisely-measured scoop of powdered Scarab beetles into her cauldron. The mixture turned a frothy purple and she seemed pleased with the result. He knocked softly on the doorframe and she answered without turning around.

“I’ll be done in just a moment, sorry! This one took a bit longer than I thought.”

When he didn’t answer, she looked over her shoulder, her eyes lighting up immediately when she saw him.

“Barty!”

“Elizabeth.” He nodded, giving her the slightest smile. “You weren’t at dinner.”

“I know, I know. I meant to finish up, but I got a little….” She gestured to the mess of ingredients strewn around her, “preoccupied.”

Her face reflected the shimmery light of the cauldron, giving her normally green eyes a strange liquid grey quality. Barty smiled despite his nerves.

“Surely you’re hungry?”

“That's the benefit of having a dormitory next to the kitchens.” Elsie grinned.

Barty rolled his eyes.

“I could report you, you know. I _am_ a Prefect.”

“Oh, you like me far too much to turn me in.” She smiled, still stirring her potion.

“Is that so?” He asked, walking around to the other side of the table.

She was silent for a moment.

“But I certainly wouldn’t want to stand in the way of your responsibilities, so perhaps you _should_ report me.”

“Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be very responsible of me to let you starve.” He replied drily.

“My sentiments exactly.” She looked up at him out of the corner of her eye and he felt his heart skip a beat.

He took a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself for what he was about to do.

“It would seem,” he said, picking up a ginger root and examining it, “That I am not the only one who ‘likes’ you—I hear you have several potential suitors.”

_“Potential suitors?”_ She raised an eyebrow. “So formal.”

“Have I been misinformed?”

“No." She looked away. “Joseph and Malcolm have both asked me. And Alistair, from Gryffindor.”

“I see,” he said quietly. “And have you said yes to any of them?”

“Would it matter?” She asked. There was a sharp edge to her voice. “The Ball is in a week. Anyone who wanted to ask me would have done it already. I can't wait around for you forever, can I?”

Barty looked taken aback. Elsie closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” She sighed. "I don't mean to sound so…pathetic.”

“You are not pathetic,” he said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.”

“Perhaps.” She said softly.

After a moment’s hesitation, and what seemed like a powerful inner conflict, Barty nodded sharply.

“Well, I have my patrol, Miss Bagman. And you should be getting to bed.” He turned to leave.

“Bartemius.” She caught his arm. She had never called him by his full name, and the use of it now stopped him cold. “I said no. The three boys—I turned them all down.”

“Why?” He could feel her cold hands through his robes.

“I was waiting for the right invitation.” She whispered.

She looked up at him with those eyes and he couldn’t help but go weak at the knees.

“Elizabeth, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Yule Ball?”

She bit her lip and he couldn’t tell if she was going to laugh or cry.

“Of course I will.” She beamed and threw her arms around him. “What took you so long?”

* * *

_ Christmas Eve, 1957_

Elsie gazed out the window of the Hufflepuff dormitory, absentmindedly running her fingers along the stone window sill. The sun was just beginning to set and tiny snowflakes were falling, giving the appearance that the very air was sparkling. Though she was making a valiant attempt to seem composed, her entire body jangled with nerves and her hands felt tingly and numb.

“Elsie?” Sharon put a hand on her shoulder, “Are you ready?”

“Is it time?”

Sharon nodded and Elsie swallowed, hard.

“Let’s be about it, then.” She said bravely, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in her dress. “Best not to be late.”

* * *

The Great Hall was a sight to behold. Fairy lights illuminated enchanted ice sculptures, and a towering Christmas tree stood in the middle of the room, adorned with what looked like thousands of shiny glass ornaments. The dining tables had disappeared and, in their place, a set of round tables lined the walls, each draped in a white tablecloth and brilliant red poinsettias.

Barty Crouch and Phillip Yaxley stood at the base of the stairs in the Entry Hall, chatting idly as students began to fill the foyer. Barty wore a grey suit and bowtie and his shoes were slightly more shined than usual. His eyes drifted around the room, taking in the masses of done-up girls sporting ruffled dresses and obscene amounts of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion.

He wasn’t paying attention until he spotted her coming down the stairs, and then his mouth was suddenly dry and he couldn't quite remember how to breathe. Her hair was styled in a low bun and she was wearing a long, chiffon dress that was the exact same shade of charcoal as his suit. She was beautiful.

He felt cold, and then hot, as though someone had cast a disillusionment charm on him. It wasn’t until he was elbowed in the side that Barty realized Phillip had been speaking to him.

“Hmm?” He asked, his eyes still on Elizabeth. Phillip followed his gaze.

“That’s the Hufflepuff?”

Elsie met his gaze and Barty grinned.

“That’s the Hufflepuff.”

* * *

Two hours later, the dance floor was clearing out as the musicians began to play a slow waltz. Students (mostly those who came without dates or those who didn’t have a particularly romantic interest in their dance partners) made their way to the small tables lining the walls to drink a glass of Butterbeer and chat with their friends.

If these were normal circumstances, Barty would likely have been sitting at a corner table with Phillip and Sullivan, rolling his eyes at the slushy-eyed couples and checking his watch every few minutes. But these were not normal circumstances and, inexplicably, he found that he did not want to be anywhere but with Elizabeth Bagman.

He and Elsie had spent the night dancing (rather badly, he could admit) and laughing through various upbeat songs with Abigail Prewett and Rita Skeeter, whom he was surprisingly not at all irritated by tonight. (She had long left the dance floor and could now be seen snogging a seventh year Gryffindor behind an ice sculpture of Ignatia Wildsmith.) He and Elsie were one of the few remaining couples still dancing as the waltz began to play. He placed one hand on her waist and offered her his other. She took it and they began dancing slowly, laughing when they couldn’t get the timing quite right. Her shoes had come off a while ago in favor of dancing barefoot, and his bowtie was slightly skewed.

“Elizabeth…”

She looked up at him but said nothing. A few wisps of her hair had come undone and hung loosely around her face. Very suddenly, neither of them were laughing anymore. There was a pause—a moment they would both remember forever as they looked into each other's eyes. A world of understanding passed between them like an electrical current.

All at once, he was kissing her, his lips soft and impossibly warm. Her head was spinning and her heart was pounding and the kiss was so sweet it made her ache. Suddenly, everything had changed. Barty Crouch was no longer simply the principled Slytherin Head Boy that rolled his eyes at her silly jokes, and Elsie Bagman wasn’t just the little blonde girl he'd met in Madame Malkin’s all those years ago.

She rested her cheek against his chest and looked up at him with sleepy, lovesick eyes. He held her gently, his arms around her waist. It was one of the rare times in life where one person knows exactly what the other is thinking, and words become altogether unnecessary. Everyone else in the room vanished and it was just the two of them, dancing so slowly they were almost standing still.

“Bartemius,” she murmured, as he kissed her once more. “Barty.”

* * *

Midnight had come and gone and the school was still abuzz with excitement. Girls still in their glittering dresses were enthusiastically reliving every moment of the ball, swapping stories about their dates and about who had kissed who.

When Elsie stepped into the Hufflepuff Common Room, she was immediately met with an onslaught of questions.

“What was it like?”

“I can’t believe you kissed!”

“ _I_ can’t believe Barty Crouch danced all night!”

“Is he a good kisser?”

“Do you think he’ll ask you out again?”

“Do you think he’ll _kiss_ you again?”

Laughing, Elsie managed to break free of the inquisition by claiming exhaustion, and made her way down the stairs into her dormitory.

Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, sighing deeply. Looking around to make sure no one else was in the room, she stuffed her fist into her mouth and squealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late! I promise I'll try to have the next one up sooner!  
> This is my longest chapter to date, and some of the editing gave me fits, lol. Also, I know that the Yule Ball is only held during Triwizard Tournament years, but the last one (before Harry's year) was in 1792 and I just had this image of the two of them dancing that I couldn't not write.  
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and I promise I'll post very soon!
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFt xX


	8. Never Whole Again

It was late October in 1976 and Elsie was having tea with Mafalda Hopkirk when the pain began.

No one except she and Bartemius knew that they were expecting another child—they hadn’t even told their son. She glanced down and saw the blood already beginning to bloom between her thighs. Eyes wide, she looked at Mafalda, who understood immediately what was going on. She'd sent an urgent memo to Barty and he was there within seconds, his face gravely pale. He explained quickly that he was due to oversee the trial of a high-profile Death Eater in just a few minutes and instructed Mafalda to take Elsie to St. Mungo’s. Assuring Elsie that he would be there as soon as he could, he squeezed her hand and Disapparated with a sharp pop.

Alone now and slightly panicking, Mafalda helped Elsie to her feet. She was clearly too weak for the Floo Network, so side-along apparition was the only option. Unfortunately, Mafalda wasn’t the neatest Apparator and, when they arrived at St. Mungo’s a few moments later, they were both nauseous. Mafalda realized with a sick jolt that Elsie had bled clear through her robes. The two of them must have looked a pair, she thought later: she green and queasy, with tea stains down her front, and Elsie pale as a ghost and covered in blood.

As soon as they arrived, a Healer whisked Elsie up to a room on the second floor. Mafalda was forced to stay in the waiting room until they’d run some tests. When she was finally allowed in to see her, Mafalda found her friend lying in the bed, dressed in a white hospital gown with tiny blue flowers patterned on it. Her face was streaked with tears.

“Oh, Elsie.” She pulled a chair up beside her and took her hand.

“What am I to do?” Elsie wailed, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. Her hands were trembling fiercely.

“You need to rest,” Mafalda said firmly, holding up a vial of dark purple liquid. “An excellent potioneer made this for me.”

“Sleeping Draught.” Elsie murmured. She’d brewed it a few weeks ago when Mafalda had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“I know you don’t like it, Elsie, but you really need to—”

Before she could finish her thought, Elsie had taken the vial from her, uncorked it, and swallowed its contents. The effect of the potion was fast-acting. She blinked slowly up at Mafalda.

“Where…”

“Shh. You rest now, dear.”

“…Where’s Barty?” Her words were garbled and slurry.

“Don’t worry about him right now, he’ll be just fine." Mafalda patted her arm. "You go on and get some sleep. He’ll be here soon.”

Elsie’s breathing was heavy and she could barely keep her eyes open but, before she succumbed to sleep, she looked up at Mafalda once more.

“He’s never here.” She whispered.

* * *

When Bartemius finally arrived at St. Mungo’s, he was directed to the second floor of the hospital. Strictly speaking, this ward was for magical ailments, but there were a few rooms set aside to treat other, miscellaneous afflictions.

Entering room number 252, he found Elsie asleep in the bed. Aside from the dark circles under her eyes, she looked as though she could have been napping. He, on the other hand, looked old and exhausted—so much so that the witch at the front desk had thought he was a patient at first. He caught a glimpse of himself in an oval wall mirror and smoothed his precisely combed hair back into place.

A young Healer—she looked no more than eighteen—was stirring a small collapsible cauldron on a countertop in the corner. When she noticed Barty, she beckoned him over to the bubbling mixture.

“This is Blood-Replenishing Potion. She’ll take this once every three hours, in addition to what she’ll need for pain. If you like, I can also make some more Dreamless Sleep for her—she was quite upset when we gave her the news.”

“Which is what?” Barty asked tensely.

“A miscarriage, I’m afraid.” She said quietly. “Her recovery should be fairly quick, but we were unable to save the baby. I’m so sorry.”

Barty’s stomach lurched.

“We’ll have to induce labor this afternoon, but it won’t be long until you can take her home.”

“…Labor?”

“Yes sir. She’ll have to…deliver…the baby.”

The room seemed to be spinning.

“Would you like to sit down, Mr. Crouch? You don’t look well.” She led him by the arm to a wing chair by the window. “Did you know, sir? About—the pregnancy, I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”

Barty didn’t know if he nodded his head or only thought that he had.

“Yes, I knew. We—Elsie and I made the decision not to announce it just yet, in case...well, in case.” He closed his eyes and massaged his temples.

“I understand, sir.” She handed him a blue bottle of Calming Draught. “Drink this. It’ll take the edge off, if you’re feeling ill. I’ll leave you two alone. She should be coming ‘round in a bit.”

He nodded. She paused before opening the door.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Crouch.”

She closed the door behind her, leaving the room shrouded in darkness, with only a sliver of afternoon sun coming in through the gap where the curtain met the window. It reminded him of Madam Malkin’s shop, on the day they first met all those years ago.

Sighing heavily, Barty conjured a chair beside Elsie’s bed and lowered himself into it. He suddenly felt so old. Looking at Elsie, he saw for the first time the lines of age upon her own face—the crow’s feet around her eyes and the subtle wrinkles around her mouth.

Almost as though she could sense his scrutiny, Elsie’s eyes fluttered open. She looked dimly around the room, struggling to remember where she was.

“What…”

“Elizabeth.” Barty reached for her hand and found it uncharacteristically warm.

She looked up at him with those big green eyes and seemed momentarily relieved. Then, quick as it came, the light faded from her gaze. She pulled her hand away and slid it beneath the covers.

“Elsie?”

“Did they tell you?” Her question sounded flat, like a statement.

“…They did.”

“Well that’s that then, isn’t it?” She stared straight ahead.

He didn’t know quite what he had expected from her—crying, naturally; perhaps even hysterics—but certainly not this. Her demeanor was quite unlike anything he’d ever seen from her, detached and unfeeling.

“Elsie…”

“Just go, Bartemius.” She said coolly. “They’ll be wanting you back at work.”

He stared at her, bewildered.

“And don’t give me that look. You missed nearly all of our son’s birth, why should you be here for our daughter’s death?”

His breath caught in his throat.

“Daughter?”

Elsie froze.

“They didn’t tell you?” She whispered.

“No.”

She arranged her face back into the expressionless mask it had been before.

“Well, now you know.”

Barty examined her closely. She wasn’t crying; in fact, she didn’t seem to be upset at all. Her face reminded him of a wax figure he had seen as a boy. Vacant.

He’d known her to bite back; to cry and lock herself in bathrooms—even to throw things. But this…this disturbed him far more deeply than if she had screamed at him.

“Elsie, I…” Before he was able to say anything else, the young Healer entered the room, this time accompanied by an older woman with light brown hair who also wore Healer’s robes.

“Mrs. Crouch?” The older Healer said, making her way towards the bed, “I’m afraid it’s time.”

Elsie said nothing, but nodded her head. The young Healer turned to Barty.

“You can stay with her if you like.”

He took Elsie’s hand once more. She didn’t pull it away this time; rather, it lay in his hand like a dead fish.

“Would you like me to stay, Elizabeth?”

She wouldn’t look at him. Feeling a slight flush creeping up his neck, he nodded tersely and turned towards the door. His hand was on the brass handle when she finally spoke.

“Barty.” She said in a tiny voice. “Don’t go.”

He was beside her in an instant, gathering her into his arms. She went limp and began to cry.

“I’m sorry,” She sobbed. “I’m so sorry. It was awful, what I said. I didn’t mean it, please don’t go.”

“Shh, Elsie. You have nothing to apologize for.” He rested his chin on the top of her head.

“Will you stay with me?” Her eyes were wide and full of tears. “Please? I don’t want to be alone.”

“You are not alone,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

* * *

The delivery was quick—much quicker than with Barty Jr. It was different this time, as she wasn’t full-term. The Healers had given Elsie a large flask of Labor-Inducing Potion; dark green and foul-smelling. Judging by the expression on her face, it tasted as unpleasant as it looked.

It was only a few minutes afterward that she delivered. Clammy and breathless, Elsie lay with her eyes closed, panting slightly.

“Would you like to hold her, ma’am?”

Elsie nodded and the Healer placed a small white bundle in her arms. It was a girl—tiny and pale—with dark wisps of hair and Bartemius’ warm brown eyes. He felt a sharp stab of grief. She looked so much like him.

“Her eyes, Barty. She has your eyes.” Elsie looked up at him and covered her mouth.

It was true. Their son was sandy-haired, with Elsie’s dusky green eyes, but she…she was the spitting image of Bartemius. She was beautiful.

“Do you want to hold her?” Elsie’s voice sounded faraway, like she was in another room. “Bartemius.”

He blinked, the sound of his name bringing him back to the present.

“Hold your daughter.”

Shaking slightly, he lifted the bundle from Elsie’s arms. She was impossibly light. He could feel his throat constricting as he looked down at this little piece of them. A “baby cocktail,” Elsie had jokingly referred to her before they'd even known she _was_ a her. Barty reached down and closed her eyes. His eyes.

“She should have a name.” The strain in his voice was almost imperceptible.

“Charlotte.” Elsie said. 

“Charlotte.” He repeated. “Charlotte Crouch.”

“It means free.” 

* * *

Bartemius had nearly forgotten that the Healer was still in the room until she laid a hand gently on his arm.

“I’m sorry. We need to take her.”

Elsie gasped and snatched her daughter back, cradling her protectively.

“Could I…could I please have her for one more minute?” She looked up at Barty, who stepped between her and the Healer.

“Yes ma’am, of course.” She said. “I’ll just be tidying up.”

The muffled clink of potion bottles could be heard as the young Healer bottled the rest of the potion and swept the ingredients back into their containers. She kept her eyes down, not wanting to disturb Barty and Elsie, but neither of them noticed her anyway.

“My grandmother used to sing this song to my mother when she was a girl, and my mother sang it to me. It’s a family tradition. You can’t go without hearing it at least once.” Elsie held Charlotte in her arms and ran a finger over her soft face, tracing the outline of her nose and lips as she sang to her—an old Irish lullaby that had been in her family for generations:

_"Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby_

_Back to the years of loo-li lai-lay_

_And I'll sing you to sleep and I'll sing you tomorrow_

_Bless you with love for the road that you go_

_May you sail far to the far fields of fortune_

_With diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet_

_And may you need never to banish misfortune_

_May you find kindness in all that you meet_

_May there always be angels to watch over you_

_To guide you each step of the way_

_To guard you and keep you safe from all harm_

_Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay, loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay"_

“There,” she whispered, “Now you’re a proper Bagman.”

She looked over at the Healer, who nodded sadly.

“Are you ready?” she asked, holding her arms out for the baby.

“No,” Elsie said. “But go on.”

There was a moment of profound silence as Elsie kissed Charlotte on the forehead and handed her to Barty.

There was so much he needed to say, but he settled for one last look at his daughter before he gave her over to the Healer. Logically he knew, of course, that it had to be done, but handing her over was nearly impossible. 

“We’ll take good care of her.” The Healer said kindly. “This is a Potion for Dreamless Sleep, make sure Mrs. Crouch drinks it. It’ll help her body to heal and we’ve found it’s quite helpful for reducing hysteria.” She handed the bottle to Barty and turned towards the door. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Barty nodded his thanks and the Healer left the room, stopping the outside hallway to wipe her eyes as she heard Mrs. Crouch begin to wail.

* * *

An hour later, Barty sat in the chair beside his wife. Her tears were finally beginning to subside, but he was still fighting the painful lump in his own throat.

Elsie sat up suddenly, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh no! What am I to tell Barty? He doesn’t even know I’m here!”

With a guilty jolt, Bartemius realized that he had forgotten all about their son.

“Would you like me to send for him?”

She hesitated for a moment before bursting into fresh tears.

“No, you can’t! He has school and he can’t—I can’t—”

“Alright, alright, it’s alright. I’ll sort it.” Barty climbed awkwardly up onto the bed beside her. “I’ll sort it. You just try and rest.”

He summoned the bottle of Dreamless Sleep and uncorked it, tipping the potion into Elsie’s mouth. She settled into him, letting her head drop onto his shoulder. Her eyes were already beginning to close.

“I’m sad.” She whispered.

Barty wrapped his arms around her and tried to ignore the ache in his chest.

“I know.”

He lay there with her as she struggled to keep her eyes open, stroking her hair and murmuring affirmations. Before long, they were both asleep—Barty lying stiffly in the hospital bed with his back propped up against the wall, and Elsie curled up beside him with her head on his chest.

And, in that moment, they weren’t Bartemius and Elizabeth—Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and his wife. They were two parents, heartbroken and exhausted, never to be whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so, so sorry, I know this chapter was mad depressing. I was so bummed out that I didn’t even have my post-chapter dance party, lol. Anyway, here it is, as promised! My best friend is coming from Georgia to visit me, so I won’t be doing a ton of writing, but I’ll try to have the next one up at the end of July/early August.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!  
> Xx LimeGreenSockFeet xX


	9. Hufflepuffs and Blood Traitors

The first fight they ever had happened during their time at Hogwarts, nearly two months after Barty's birthday in September. Elsie had given him a tiny bottle of Felix Felicis that she had brewed herself—a considerable feat given how difficult the recipe was. It was a tricky potion, well beyond anything she had made before, and Professor Slughorn was quite impressed. He insisted on tasting it, “just to make sure it was perfect.” (It was, and Slughorn was mysteriously lucky for the rest of the day.)

Barty was equally impressed. He was not, however, able to thank Elsie as sufficiently as he would have liked, owing to the fact that she had thrown her arms around his neck, wished him a happy birthday, and left him red in the face and stuttering slightly, unable to remember what he’d wanted to say.

Since Barty and Elsie had met in the library in the first term of Elsie’s third year, they had been nearly inseparable, though none of their friends understood why. On any given day of the week, they could be found in the library, walking to class together, or studying outside by the lake if the weather was nice.

Of course, both of them insisted they were just friends, but anyone who knew Elsie (or Barty, for that matter) knew better. Rita, in particular, questioned Elsie tirelessly about whether she liked Barty and, more importantly, if Barty liked her. In fact, Elsie had grown so sick of Rita’s inquisition that she had taken to spending time with Mafalda Hopkirk, a quiet Hufflepuff, and Abigail Prewett, a fourth year Gryffindor that she had several classes with. They made a good quartet: Rita, of course, knew all the latest gossip, Mafalda was incredibly sweet and level-headed, and Abigail was an absolute riot and kept them all laughing constantly.

In fact, it was from her new friends (and Rita) that Elsie found out what Barty had done. The three of them had run up to her in the hallway, panting and interrupting one another as they breathlessly retold the story of what they had just seen.

“I swear we’re telling the truth, Elsie, we saw him do it!”

“And I asked him as soon as class was over—of course he denied it, the ridiculous git—”

_“Rita!_ It’s true, though, honestly. He tried to hide it but we both saw him putting it back in his robes and there was less in it than before—”

“—It was all sparkly and gold—”

“—And the seal was gone—”

“And he was looking around to make sure that no one saw him do it—you should have seen how nervous he was.”

“I’m telling you, Elsie, I knew all along that there was something not right about him, and here’s the proof!”

_“Stop!”_ Elsie held up a hand. “Would you— _one_ of you—please explain to me what is going on?”

Rita opened her mouth to answer, but Abigail beat her to it.

_“Barty used the Felix Felicis you made for him on his Herbology N.E.W.T.”_

 _“What?”_ Elsie laughed. “No, come on, honestly. This _is_ Barty Crouch we’re talking about, yes? He wouldn’t even give me the answers to his homework from two _years_ ago!"

The three girls said nothing.

“Mafalda?” Elsie asked, convinced she would tell her it was all some sort of joke or misunderstanding.

"He…he cheated, Elsie. It's true.”

Elsie looked at her sharply.

“You’re sure? You’re _absolutely_ sure?”

“We’re sure,” Rita said grimly. “Ask Joycie and Caroline, they saw it too.”

“Both of them?” Elsie’s asked, her face stony. Abigail, Rita, and Mafalda nodded.

“Where is he now?”

* * *

Elsie flew down the enchanted staircase two steps at a time, with Rita, Abigail, and Mafalda behind her. When she reached the first floor, she saw him. Barty stood in the Entrance Hall, laughing and discussing the Wimbourne Wasps Quidditch team with an exchange student from Durmstrang.

All four of them stopped on the landing. Abigail squeezed Elsie’s hand and nodded supportively. Mafalda was a nervous wreck. Rita looked thrilled.

“Go on,” Abigail said. “We’re here if you need us.”

Setting her jaw, Elsie marched down the stairs and up to him, clearing her throat.

“Barty.”

“Afternoon, Elizabeth. Have you met Nikolai Kozlov? He’s a seventh year studying—” He broke off when he saw the look on her face. “What is it?”

“Rita has just informed me that you got perfect marks on your Herbology exam,” Elsie said, folding her arms, “ _after_ drinking something ‘sparkly and gold.’”

The smile disappeared from his face.

“Surely you aren’t going to take Rita Skeeter’s word as gospel.” He said, raising an eyebrow but looking significantly paler.

“I _knew_ you were going to say something like that.” she narrowed her eyes. “Fine, then, forget Rita. How do you explain Abigail and Mafalda? And what about Caroline Bones? And Joyce Bell?”

“All friends of yours, I notice.” He said pompously.

“You can’t be serious. Are you serious?”

“Elizabeth, this is not the time and _certainly_ not the place.” He said, glancing furtively at Kozlov.

“I made that Felix Felicis for you to use at _Duelling Club_ or something, Barty, not a school exam!” She shouted. "You _cheated!"_

“Do you have any idea how important this examination was?” He hissed. “My entire career at the Ministry hinges on the marks I get.”

“Oh, and a fine Ministry man you’ll make,” she scoffed disdainfully. “You’ll fit right in with all the other dishonest, corrupt politicians.”

Barty’s eyes blazed and a faint flush colored the tips of his ears. He opened his mouth to respond but, instead, turned to Kozlov and smirked.

“You’ll have to excuse her.” He said, sneering at Elsie. “She’s a Bagman, you know.”

“Hufflepuffs and blood traitors, the lot of them.” Kozlov said, rolling his eyes.

Elsie gasped. She looked at Barty expectantly, waiting for him to defend her, but he said nothing. He met her gaze, but she found no sympathy there—only indifference.

“Indeed.” He said coldly.

Elsie looked as though he had slapped her across the face. Her green eyes were red and watery.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Barty Crouch,” she whispered tearfully. “I thought you were different.”

Kozlov roared with laughter. Barty looked away, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes.

“Elsie!” Abigail called, racing down the stairs. Mafalda was right behind her, looking angrier than Elsie had ever seen her. Rita was, unsurprisingly, observing the situation from a few feet away.

“Come on, Else, we’re late for Charms.” Abigail grabbed her arm.

Elsie shook her head, eyes still full of tears.

“I have homework.” She sniffled, pushing past them and down the staircase that led to the dungeons. Mafalda ran after her, leaving Abigail, Rita, Kozlov, and Barty standing in the hall. All four of them heard Elsie crying as she rounded the corner.

“Oh, well done, Barty.” Abigail snapped. “What do you think you’re playing at?”

Barty stared at her, taken aback. He and Abigail usually got on quite well. Before he could formulate a response, she turned on her heel and stalked off, huffing angrily.

This left only Rita, who made a show of tucking her quill into her book bag and smiling acidly at Barty before following the other girls to the dungeons.

“Girls.” Kozlov said, shrugging his shoulders. “Too emotional. But it is almost time to eat, yes?”

Barty muttered a quick excuse about finishing an essay and disappeared up the staircase, in the opposite direction of the girls.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Rita sat lazily on a wooden stool, her head propped up on her arm, reading Elsie the instructions for a batch of Doxycide.

“Half a scoop of beetle eyes.”

Elsie tossed them in haphazardly, where they made a faint splash.

“I cannot believe him.”

Rita sighed for what seemed like the thousandth time. Abbie and Mafalda were much better at handling this sort of thing than she was—pity they refused to skive off class with her.

“He’s an arse. _And a Slytherin,_ ” she added under her breath. “Three counterclockwise stirs.”

“But we’re friends!” She stirred the potion four times. “And I thought—”

“Six Billywig stings.”

“—I just thought he was better than that, that’s all.”

“Else, he’s a _Slytherin._ Ten clockwise stirs.”

“Oh, don’t start,” Elsie said, stirring the cauldron rather violently. “You know, he’s never like that when it’s just the two of us. Only when his _pureblood pals_ are around.”

“Thought _you_ were his pureblood pal.” Rita said, raising her eyebrows. “Armadillo bile, four ounces.”

“No, I’m a Hufflepuff and a blood traitor, remember?”

“Ugh.” Rita wrinkled her nose, both at Barty and the noxious armadillo bile.

“I just—I mean, I just can’t believe he would _say_ that! Well, I suppose it was that Kozlov who said it, but he _agreed!_ ”

“He’s a pig. Add a pinch of Erumpet horn.”

“I mean, honestly! Is that _honestly_ what he thinks of me, honestly?” She threw a handful of the crushed powder into the cauldron. “He is the most conceited, arrogant, narrow-minded prat! _Honestly!_ I can’t—”

“Elsie, a _PINCH!_ ” Rita shrieked, scrambling to her feet.

She barely managed to gasp before the cauldron exploded.

* * *

When Elsie opened her eyes, she was in the Hospital Wing, feeling stiff and sore. Madam Pomfrey stood at the sink, supervising a pair of self-sweeping brooms and periodically stirring a small, bubbling cauldron.

“What—what happened?” Elsie’s voice was hoarse and scratchy.

“Ah, our resident potioneer awakens! You had a minor setback, dear, not to worry. You hit your head. I’m afraid I’ll have to keep an eye on you for a few days, just to make sure.” She smiled. “Although I must say, what remained of your potion was rather impressive. You seem to have quite a talent.”

“My Doxycide—I added too much Erumpet horn. I was…distracted.” She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “Ouch.”

“Try not to get overexcited, dear. I’ll have your Wiggenweld ready in a bit.” She said, gesturing to the cauldron. “I’d ask you to help me, but I can’t have it blowing up.” She said drily.

Elsie groaned and flopped back down onto her pillow.

“Not to worry, dear. I’ve seen a lot worse.” Madam Pomfrey smiled. “Although it appears tonight will be a challenge for all of us—your Doxycide seems to have left the dungeons rather uninhabitable. Professor Slughorn is relocating to an upstairs classroom until they can get it cleaned.”

“This is all my fault.” Elsie covered her face with her hands.

“It happens, it happens.” Madam Pomfrey waved her hand airily. “But I will tell you this: I’m certainly not looking forward to this evening—all the Slytherin students are going to have to sleep here, in the Hospital.”

Elsie sat bolt upright.

_“What?”_

* * *

Elsie spent the next morning gathering up bedsheets and attempting to magically clean them while Madam Pomfrey gave her pointers. Housekeeping spells weren’t her specialty, but she much preferred it to sitting in her bed and doing nothing all day. And, as it were, Madam Pomfrey needed the extra help. She wasn’t accustomed to having so many students stay overnight, and they had already worn out their welcome.

“Idiot boys,” Madam Pomfrey muttered, siphoning away a puddle of spilled pumpkin juice. “Sometimes I think they don’t listen to a word I say.”

Elsie laughed bitterly.

“I can relate to that at the moment.”

Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow but continued bustling around the room.

“Trouble with Mr. Crouch, I take it?”

“I—I wasn’t talking about…anyone in particular.”

Madam Pomfrey’s eyebrow crept even higher.

“You know, I noticed he was absent last night. Any idea where he might have been?”

“None whatsoever.” Elsie answered in what she hoped was a convincing, nonchalant tone.

Madam Pomfrey’s eyebrow was now in danger of disappearing into her hair. Elsie sat down on one of the beds and sighed.

“He had evening patrol last night. He probably slept in the staffroom.” She answered, sounding very much resigned.

“Don’t be too hard on him, dear.”

Elsie gaped incredulously at her.

“But he—he—” She broke off. “Wait a moment. How is it that everyone at this school seems to know what’s going on in my life?”

Madam Pomfrey gave her a knowing smile.

“We staff members notice rather more than you give us credit for, Miss Bagman.” She said, passing her wand over a damp bedsheet and drying it immediately.

They worked in silence for a few minutes as Elsie got up the nerve to speak.

“Madam Pomfrey?” She asked. “What did you mean? About not being too hard on Barty?”

Madam Pomfrey laid the bedsheet aside and sat down next to her, covering Elsie's hand with her own.

“Merely that boys—especially of this age—do not always make rational decisions. And while I certainly do not condone pureblood mania, perhaps your young man deserves a second chance.”

“He—he isn’t _mine..._ ”

Madam Pomfrey raised both eyebrows this time.

“…We’re just friends.” Elsie finished.

“Oh yes, I had a ‘just friend’ when I was at Hogwarts.”

“Did he give you much trouble?”

_“Tons.”_ Madam Pomfrey said. “I couldn’t stand the boy.”

“What happened?”

 _“I married him.”_ she said tartly.

* * *

That evening, Elsie sat in her bed, knitting and watching a group of Slytherin third years playing Exploding Snap in a circle on the floor. She sighed. Madam Pomfrey had insisted on keeping her in the Hospital Wing for one more night, despite her protests. Elsie leaned back against the metal bed frame and closed her eyes. She was sick of this place.

“Ah, Mr. Crouch!”

Elsie’s eyes snapped open. She had hoped (rather unrealistically, perhaps) that Barty would find himself on night patrol again but, there he stood, looking pale and tired.

“I wondered if we’d be seeing you!” Madam Pomfrey smiled.

“Yes ma’am, I had Prefect duty last night,” he said stiffly, “…regrettably.”

 _Regrettably._ Elsie snorted derisively. He was such a prat. Madam Pomfrey’s eyes flickered in her direction and Barty’s jaw tensed.

“I wasn’t aware…” he trailed off. “Forgive me, Madam Pomfrey. I was under the impression it was only Slytherin House that would be staying in the Hospital Wing.”

Elsie glared at him. He was now refusing to look at her which was even more infuriating than if he’d been shouting. Before Madam Pomfrey could answer him, a loud bang came from behind a curtain on the other side of the room.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! What now?” Madam Pomfrey threw her hands up. “I’d better go see what all the fuss is about. I’ll just leave the two of you to chat for a moment.”

“I’ll come with you.” Barty said, at the same time Elsie shouted, “No!”

Madam Pomfrey crossed her arms and rounded on them.

“Now you listen to me, the both of you. I have plenty enough to be getting on with here without all this melodrama. So, whatever is going on, you two are just going to have to sort it out, or it’ll be a very long night for all of us. Especially considering this bed situation." 

“Bed situation?” Elsie stared at her.

“We’re out of beds. I’m afraid the two of you will have to share.”

“ _What?”_ They both said in unison.

Madam Pomfrey ignored them and strode into her office. Barty and Elsie followed her, talking over one another.

“Madame Pomfrey, we can’t—I mean— _I_ can’t—”

“Surely there must be a better solution—”

“Really, the two of us are not going to be able to sleep like this—”

“— _together_ in one bed—”

“It’s not appropriate!”

“—entirely inappropriate—”

“I won’t get any sleep at all! —”

Madame Pomfrey held a hand up and they fell silent.

“Enough!” She cried. “I am well aware that this is not what you two want. _I_ didn’t want seventy Slytherins in my Hospital!” She turned to Barty. “If you two are so concerned with propriety, you should think twice before calling people blood traitors. And _you_ ,” she said, turning to Elsie, “Should refrain from blowing up dungeons!”

“But…but can’t you just conjure another bed?” Elsie asked, her eyes wide.

“Certainly I could. But do you see any space in this room for one?”

It was true; except for a very narrow walkway, every available inch of floor was crammed with beds.

“Madam Pomfrey,” Barty began, looking affronted, “You cannot be serious.”

“Have you a better solution, Mr. Crouch?”

“Yes, actually.” He said loftily. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Elsie mimed gagging. “So noble.” She muttered under her breath.

Barty whipped around and scowled at her.

“Well, I suppose there might be room on the floor, just over here. But it’ll be uncomfortable—and you’ll still be next to Miss Bagman.”

“But—” Elsie began to protest but the look on Madame Pomfrey’s face stopped her.

“Not one more word! Unless one of you would like to spend the night suffocating in the dungeons, this is the arrangement.”

Barty raised his hand pompously.

“ _Yes_?” the Matron gritted her teeth.

“I would be more than happy to sleep in the dungeons.”

Elsie glared at him as Madame Pomfrey rolled her eyes.

“ _Goodnight_ Mr. Crouch; Miss Bagman.” She summoned a pile of blankets and handed them to Barty before stalking off to another bed and administering a blue potion to a Gryffindor second year.

Barty frowned as he laid down the blankets, taking care to smooth out any wrinkles. When everything was in its place, he lay down and rolled over to face away from Elsie. She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at the ceiling.

The tension between them was palpable; there was no way either of them would be getting any sleep in the state they were in, but neither of them were especially keen to break the silence.

Finally, after more than an hour, Elsie sat up.

“You are not seriously going to bed without speaking to me.”

Barty sighed and rolled over.

“It’s late. I’m tired and I’m sleeping on the floor, Elizabeth.” He said. “We’re in the middle of the Hospital with seventy other students. What would you like me to say?”

“Perhaps you could start with ‘I’m sorry I was such a stupid prat.’” She suggested icily.

“Would you two shut up?” A voice three beds down muttered angrily. “Leave it out.”

Barty sat up and scooted closer to Elsie’s bed.

“You made me look ridiculous in front of Kozlov. It’s you who should be apologizing.”

“ _Me?_ You used a banned substance on a N.E.W.T exam!”

“Would you keep your voice down? And that is hardly the point—you shouldn’t have said it in front of him.”

“ _I_ shouldn’t have said it? “She hissed. “You called me a _blood traitor!_ ”

Barty had the good sense to look ashamed.

“Barty, I don’t care about my blood status—you know that. And I don’t care what some stupid Durmstrang boy thinks about it, either. But you…” Her eyes sparkled with tears. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“No.” He said quietly.

“Because if you do, you’d better tell me now. Before...” She looked away. “Before things go any further.”

“That is _not_ what I think of you.” He said firmly. “I made a careless, tactless mistake. I did not agree with Kozlov and I _do_ not agree with him. I would certainly take it back if I could.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as though warding off a headache. “I’m sorry, Elsie.”

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it. I want you to be honest with me.”

“I am.” He said. “You are one of the most brilliant witches I’ve met, both in talent and in character. Any house would be fortunate to have you.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. A cricket chirped outside. 

“I’m sorry for what I said about the Ministry.” She whispered. “I know what it means to you. I know how hard you work.”

Slowly, she let her hand drop from the bed, where it dangled for only a moment before Barty reached up and took it.

“Your hands are warm.” She murmured.

“And yours are _freezing_ ,” he said, grimacing. “Merlin's beard, they’re like ice.”

“You know what they say—cold hands, warm heart.

He grinned despite himself and squeezed her hand. Elsie bit her lip and shifted closer, her face resting on the side of the bed. Suddenly she froze.

“Someone’s coming.” She breathed.

“Shh.” Barty pressed a finger to his lips and listened cautiously. This time they both heard the footsteps. Evidently, Madam Pomfrey heard it as well, because she was already stumbling out of her room in a floral nightgown and velvety purple slippers.

Barty immediately closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Elsie stuffed the bedsheet into her mouth to keep from giggling.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Madam Pomfrey asked, “Are you alright? Whatever is the matter?”

“Nothing, my dear lady.” He said, raising a hand to calm her. “Nothing at all. Headmaster Dippet simply sent me to tell you that the dungeons have been restored. I’ve come to relieve you of your Slytherin guests.”

“Well, it’s about time!” She huffed. “It’s been chaos in here!”

“So I’ve heard.” Professor Dumbledore smiled, his blue eyes twinkling good-naturedly.

“A bit late though, isn’t it?” She glanced up at the clock on the wall.

“A bit.” He agreed. “But I imagine they’ll be eager to return to their Common Room, and you to your peace and quiet.”

“It can’t come soon enough.” She said, gesturing to the sleeping Slytherins. “This lot’s been a right terror. Well—except for Miss Bagman. She’s actually rather helpful.” She glanced fondly at the girl.

“Well, I suppose we should wake them, then,” Dumbledore said cheerfully, observing Madam Pomfrey’s face with interest. “Unless you’d prefer a different arrangement?” He followed her gaze to the corner of the room where Elizabeth Bagman was curled beneath the covers, her arm dangling over the side of the bed. Beside her, Barty Crouch lay atop a pallet of blankets on the floor, one hand resting on his chest and the other intertwined with hers.

“Ah,” Professor Dumbledore sighed. “Young love.” He gave Madam Pomfrey a watery smile.

“Let’s leave them be, Professor.” She said, blinking a tear from her own eye. “Just for one more night.”

“I quite agree.” He said, forming a triangle with his fingertips. “I shall send Professor Slughorn to retrieve them in the morning then, if that is permissible?”

Madam Pomfrey nodded.

“Excellent.” He clapped his hands together. “And now I must be off. Do try and get some rest, dear Poppy.” With a smile and a bow, he retreated through the stone doorway, leaving Madam Pomfrey yawning in his wake. She looked around once more to make sure everyone was asleep—she wouldn’t put some kind of ill-conceived Dungbomb prank past any of these Slytherins. She narrowed her eyes against the darkness, but it seemed that everyone was well and truly asleep. Except—

“ _Goodnight,_ Miss Bagman. Mr. Crouch.”

“…Goodnight.” They both said, after a moment's hesitation.

Smiling to herself and shaking her head, Madam Pomfrey shuffled wearily back into her room, hoping for at least a few hours of sleep before this lot was up causing trouble.

* * *

When he was fairly sure Madam Pomfrey was asleep, Barty reached up and took Elsie’s hand once more.

“Goodnight Barty.” She whispered.

“Goodnight Elizabeth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter down! Even though this one mostly revolved around Barty and Elsie’s fight, I tried to make it less depressing than the last chapter, lol. Also, according to the canon timeline, Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t have been at Hogwarts quite yet, but I love her, so stay in your lane. Also also, I know this is way longer than usual so, if you hate longer chapters I’m sorry! (If you like longer chapters, you’re welcome!)  
> Anyway, I hope you’re all doing fabulous and, as always, thank you so much for reading! Stay tuned for chapter 10! :)
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFt xX


	10. To See the Thestrals

Nearly a year after Elsie’s miscarriage, Barty was spending yet another late evening at the office. The war kept him busy, true, but it also served as a convenient excuse to keep him away from the house. Dealing with emotions was certainly not his strong suit, and Elizabeth was heartbroken. She had taken the loss of their daughter extremely hard and he couldn’t help but feel responsible. If he’d taken better care of her...if he’d done more…perhaps he would be home now, holding the hand of a toddler, reading to her while Elsie brushed her hair; rocking her to sleep at night. Perhaps— _no._ Such thoughts were irrational and unhelpful. They only served to hurt him, and he could not afford to be at anything less than his best. Elizabeth needed him. The Wizarding World needed him.

Shaking his head, he returned to his notes. He had just pressed the tip of his quill to the parchment when a loud hoot startled him. A sooty-colored Horned Owl had landed on his desk, a letter clamped in its beak. Barty narrowed his eyes. The Ministry no longer used owls since they switched to inter-departmental memos, and he couldn’t imagine why anyone would be owling him at the office—and at this hour, no less. Slowly, he took the letter and opened it as the owl stared at him with piercing yellow eyes.

_Barty, it’s Ludo. Hate to bother you at work, but I figured you ought to hear it from me first. Mum and Dad have been sick with Dragon Pox. I haven't told Elsie. Poor girl would’ve worried herself sick, and after all that business with the baby, I didn’t think she could handle it. We all thought they’d get better, and it looked that way for a while, but they had a turn for the worse last week and it was only a matter of time. Dad died last night and Mum wasn’t an hour after him. The funeral’s Saturday morning, if you can make it._

_Sorry to have to tell you like this. Tell Elsie I said hello and give little B a hug from me. Hope to see you Saturday._

_x Ludo_

Margaret and Patrick dead? How could this be? Barty's disbelief turned first to shock and then to dismay as he put his head in his hands and wondered how he could possibly tell his already grieving wife that her parents were now gone as well.

* * *

The evening had turned to morning by the time he arrived home, due both to the fact that he had overseen two trials and six raids (and the mountain of paperwork that went along with them), as well as the prospect of having to tell Elsie this awful news. Things were tense enough between the two of them at the moment and he was rather dreading her reaction.

She was on the couch when he came in; asleep beside knitting needles and a tangled skein of yarn. Her hair was beginning to grey now, and she looked worn out, even in sleep. It had been a hard year for her.

“Elizabeth.” Barty sat down beside her and shook her gently. She furrowed her eyebrows and groaned, burrowing deeper underneath her thick afghan.

“What time is it?” She blinked up at him.

“Late. Elizabeth, there’s something you need to know…something I have to tell you.”

She shot up and grabbed his arm.

“Is it Barty? What’s happened, where is he?”

“He’s fine, he’s at school. It’s—it's your parents. They…Ludo wrote me today. They had Dragon Pox.”

Elsie hesitated for just a moment before breathing a sigh of relief.

“Merlin, you scared me!” She laughed, putting a hand over her mouth. “Dragon Pox...well, I mean, it’s obviously serious, but they’re strong. I really should go up and visit, though, they’ll be wanting to see me.”

“Elizabeth.” Barty took her hands. “Listen to me. They’d been sick for a while. Ludo didn’t want to worry you, he assumed they would recover. He wrote to ask me if we’d be able to come this Saturday.”

“...Both of us?” Her smile fell, her eyes betraying what she already knew.

“For the funeral.”

The color drained from Elsie’s face.

“No. No, this can’t be right, I...” She looked up at him, her face white as a ghost. “Barty…”

“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth.”

“I—I—” She faltered. “I have to pack.” She said, standing up so suddenly that she nearly knocked Barty over.

“Pack?”

“For the funeral. We’ll have to fly.” She said faintly, sending the yarn and knitting needles zooming back into their basket. “Unwise to Apparate with all that luggage.”

“Sit down, Elizabeth, please. You’ve had quite a shock, Winky can put the kettle on.”

“You’ll need your black suit. And your cloak.” She ignored him and busied herself with a piece of lint on her skirt. “You’ll be staying late again tomorrow, I take it. You can meet me in Fionnphort. Or don’t come at all, I can handle it.” She turned towards the stairs, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.

“You need to get some rest. Come and lie down, we can sort all this out in the morning.”

She backed away from him, tripping over the first step, and Barty grasped her arm to steady her.

“Write Barty for me, will you?” She pulled away and held her arm out, keeping him at a distance. “He’ll want to know what’s going on.”

“Elsie…”

“Don’t.” She whispered. “Please, Bartemius, just don’t.”

He nodded wearily and she disappeared upstairs, gripping the banister for support. Barty heard her footsteps stop on the landing; heard a dull thud above him and the muffled crying.

Massaging his temples, Barty closed his eyes and sighed. Exhausted though he was, he knew he couldn't leave her like this. He summoned Winky with the snap of his fingers and she appeared at the foot of the stairs with a tray of tea and scones.

“Mistress is needing Winky.” She said. “Winky is taking this upstairs to poor Mistress Elsie.”

Barty nodded, though he knew she wouldn’t be up to eating anything, and took Winky’s outstretched hand, ascending the stairs with her in silence.

They found Elsie sitting on the top step; her knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around herself.

Winky set the tray down carefully beside her and gently touched Elsie’s hand with her long, thin fingers, her large brown eyes full of sympathy. Then, with a pop, she was gone, leaving Barty and Elsie alone in the dark stairwell.

“Go away.”

He sat down beside her, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his legs. She looked at him incredulously.

“Barty—”

“I am not leaving you alone, Elizabeth, and you are not going to Fionnphort by yourself. I will owl the Minister tonight and let her know that I am taking the weekend off. She knew your parents, she’ll certainly understand. Longbottom can manage the office until Monday. Everything will be alright, Elsie.”

“It won’t be.” She shook her head. “I just...can’t believe it. Mum and Dad gone and Charlotte gone and you’re never here, and—oh, Barty, how did we end up like this? What are we to do?”

Barty exhaled deeply.

“We stay the course, as always. We carry on. Things cannot be so unhappy forever.” He took her hand and she shivered.

“Your hands are cold.” She said.

“Yes, well. Cold hands, warm heart, as you say.”

She smiled, remembering the first time she’d said that to him; how naive she’d been.

“Can you believe how young we were? It feels like a lifetime ago. I barely remember that girl anymore.”

“I remember her like it was yesterday. Wild blonde hair, eyes like sea glass…you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.” He ran his thumb across her jaw. “You _are_ the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Elsie laid her head on his shoulder and he kissed her softly.

“We’ll be alright, Elsie. You may feel as though you have lost everything else, but you have not yet lost me.”

* * *

Many years had passed since Barty and Elsie had been back to her childhood home in Scotland. With Barty’s hectic and ever-changing work schedule, it had been easier for her parents to visit them in England.

Fionnphort was as beautiful as ever. The air was crisp; the sky a painful winter white. A layer of thick, sparkling snow blanketed the ground, untouched but for the tracks of a lone deer.

An old House Elf emerged from the house, hunched and gnarled and moving at the pace of a snail. He looked older than ever, but Elsie’s heart leaped when she saw him.

“Welby!”

The elf bowed his head and kneeled at her feet.

“Welby is very sorry. He is doing all he can for Mistress and Master, but he is not saving them.”

Elsie dropped to her knees and hugged him.

“It’s not your fault, Welby. There was nothing anyone could do.”

“Oh, Mistress Elsie.” the old elf mumbled, “Welby never thinks he is living to see the death of his Master and Mistress.” His leathery skin was damp with tears.

Elsie tried to speak, but all she could do was nod past the painful lump in her throat. She stayed there with Welby, letting the brokenhearted elf cry in her arms until Barty put a hand on her shoulder.

“Let’s get you inside.” He said, helping her to her feet. The knees of her robes were soaked through to the skin and she was shivering.

Their luggage floated placidly behind them, following them up to the porch and into the front door.

* * *

That evening, it was eerily quiet in the house. Ludo hadn’t arrived yet from Wimbourne and Elsie was unnerved by the silence. It seemed wrong—her mother should be bustling around in the kitchen; her father making witty comments and laughing his deep, booming laugh; Ludo talking nonstop about The Wasps and that time he hit a Bludger straight into Smitty Crockford’s nose during their match against the Appleby Arrows.

To pass the time, Elsie and Barty spent the evening in the Sitting Room with Welby, looking through old photo albums, much like they had on the night he proposed to her.

Elsie held up a photograph of all seven of them at the beach; a picture from the trip they had taken together when Barty Jr. was only six. Patrick was carrying a towel and holding hands with Margaret, who was shielding her eyes from the sun. Barty was shirtless and Elsie sat on his shoulders, wearing a wide-brimmed floppy straw hat and waving at the camera. Ludo stood winking in the background, holding a beaming Barty Jr. upside down by the ankles. Standing in the very front was Welby, smiling happily with a smear of white sunscreen on the tip of his long nose.

“Do you remember this, Welby?” Elsie handed him the picture. “When we all went on Holiday to the beach?”

He nodded his head.

“We is having many good times, Mistress Elsie.” He said. “Welby hopes his next family is as kind as the Bagmans.”

“Actually,” she glanced over at Barty, “I’d like to talk to you about that. There’s something I wanted to ask you.” she said.

“Anything, Mistress.”

“We—well, Barty and I—were discussing it, and we thought you might like to come and live with us.”

Welby’s already overlarge eyes widened and filled with tears.

“You don’t have to.” Elsie continued hurriedly. “I know you love it here and we would understand completely if you wanted to stay, of course.”

“Mistress,” croaked Welby, grasping Elsie’s hand and shaking it vigorously, “Welby would be honored to come and work for you and Master Barty.” Tears were streaming from his eyes and splashing down onto Elsie’s hand. She beamed at him.

“Wonderful, Welby, I’m so glad. But, you know, you wouldn’t have to work for us. Perhaps you could think of yourself as a guest—as part of the family.”

At this, Welby clutched his chest and gave a great gasp. Elsie continued, supporting the elf as he swayed unsteadily.

“You’ve done so much for our family, it’s the least we can do. We love you, Welby.”

“Mistress Elsie is too good to poor Welby, and Master Barty, too. Welby is loving you both more than he is knowing how to say.”

“We would be happy to have you, Welby,” Barty said, smiling for the first time all evening.

“Is that a yes, then?” Elsie asked.

“Oh, yes,” Welby nodded his head fervently. Both Elsie and Barty laughed. “Welby is going right now to pack his suitcase!”

“We should be off to bed as well, Elizabeth. We have an early morning and a long day ahead of us.” Barty helped her up from the sofa and sent the photo album zooming back to its place on the bookshelf.

“Goodnight Mistress Elsie and Master Barty. Welby is happy to have such a generous family.”

“Goodnight, Welby.” Elsie leaned down to hug the old elf once more. “I’m so glad you’re coming home with us.” She whispered.

Welby smiled sincerely and placed a withery kiss on her cheek.

* * *

The next morning, Elsie woke to sunlight filtering in through the window, pale and bright. Yawning, she stretched and rolled over to find Barty, leaned up against the headboard, watching her solemnly. His hand twitched, as though he wanted to reach over and touch her but decided against it.

“What is it?” She whispered.

“I owe you an apology, Elizabeth.” He looked down at her, his dark eyes serious. “It is certainly no great shock to you that I’ve had a tendency to be…preoccupied with work over the years. I have been absent for a long time now. I told myself that I would make time for you—for our son—as soon as this war was over. Surely it wouldn’t last the year, I thought, and things would return to normal...we would go on Holiday somewhere…I would take the day off and surprise you. Yesterday marks seven years since this war began. _Seven years_ that I have neglected you and Barty. And then Charlotte. She was—I didn’t know what to do. I tried to busy myself at the office; bury myself in paperwork. I left you all alone. I cannot convey to you how much regret I carry.” He looked away. His rare display of emotion was astounding, and Elsie was deeply moved to see that his eyes were damp. “I have failed you, Elizabeth.”

“Oh, Barty.” Elsie reached up and cupped his cheek. “You’ve made mistakes, we all have. But I don’t blame you. I wasn’t the only one who lost Charlotte. She was your daughter too. You did the best you could.”

“My obligation is to you and our son and I have not fulfilled it.”

“It’s not too late,” she said softly. He nodded resolutely.

“This war…it has gone on for too long; destroyed too many lives. I will not allow our family to be one of the casualties.”

“You’re a good man, Barty Crouch.” Elsie nestled up beside him, laying her head in his lap and looking up at him. “I love you.”

“And I, you.” He said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

* * *

Later that morning, Elsie knocked quietly on the door to the loft where Welby slept.

“Welby?” She called. “It’s nearly time to go.”

The door swung open to reveal the tiny old elf asleep in his bed, curled up next to the crackling fire. Elsie smiled. She had witnessed this same exact scene countless times: bursting in on Christmas mornings, excited to open gifts; begging Welby to play with her on Saturdays when everyone else was asleep or busy; playing hide and seek with him and Ludo before he learned not to hide in the same spot every time.

She smiled fondly at the memories, and at the House Elf who had been a part of them all. Though, realistically, he wouldn’t be much help around the house, she was very glad that he had agreed to come and stay with them. His entire life had been spent in servitude to the Bagman family and Elsie and Barty both felt he was deserving of a nice retirement.

“Welby.”

He didn’t move, still sleeping soundly. She crouched down beside his bed and shook him gently.

His wrinkly skin was bone cold. Elsie’s heart stopped.

“Welby? _Welby!_ ” She continued to shake him, harder and harder until the little elf’s body was flopping around like a rag doll. His eyes fell open and he stared straight ahead, slack-mouthed and empty.

“No, no, no,” Elsie muttered, trying in vain to stand him upright on his feet. “Please wake up.”

She lay two fingers on his throat, but couldn’t discern a heartbeat over the sound of her own panicked pulse. Convinced that she was simply missing the familiar thumping of his heart, she pressed an ear to his chest, listening carefully.

Nothing.

“ _BARTY!_ ” She screamed, shaking Welby harder than ever, paying no mind to her carefully styled hair.

Barty wrenched the door open, wand at the ready, only to find Elsie flung across the body of her parents’ elf, crying hysterically. Beside them lay an open trunk, packed neatly with family photographs and recipe books. His heart sank.

“I can’t take it,” She sobbed, clutching the tiny, lifeless body even tighter, “First Charlotte and then Mum and Dad both, and now Welby?” Her voice was shrill; unhinged.

Barty helped her to her feet and she clung to him desperately.

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I’m so sorry.” He murmured over and over again, until the words sounded foreign in his own mouth.

Eventually, her wails subsided, leaving her limp and breathless.

“We’re going to be late, Elsie.” He said, gently straightening her cloak. “We’ll sort this out after the service.”

“No,” she said, pulling away. “No, he should be buried with Mum and Dad. It’s what he would’ve wanted.”

Barty drew his wand from inside his robes, but Elsie stopped him.

“Let me.”

He nodded as she raised her own wand and pointed it at the window. The curtains cut themselves apart and, in a frenzy of fabric, stitched themselves back together into a tiny black suit, which floated over to Welby and slipped down over his head. He looked like a little minister.

With a deep breath, Elsie lifted the elf into her arms and carried him through the door.

* * *

The only other time Elsie had used magic on Welby without his consent was when she was sixteen. She had walked into the Sitting Room to find Welby cornered; ten-year-old Ludo was pointing their mum’s wand at him. Elsie levitated the elf at once, summoning him towards her and placing him back on the ground where he'd quickly scurried behind her.

“ _Ludovic Bagman!_ What on earth do you think you’re doing?” She had demanded, hands on her hips.

“He wouldn’t play with me,” Ludo stuck his chin out defiantly. “I gave him an order and he didn’t obey.”

“He doesn’t work for you, he works for Mum and Dad.” Elsie said sharply.

“Well, how come he does what _you_ say, then?” He challenged.

“Because he actually likes me.” She retorted. “And you would do well to remember that he’s a part of this family too.”

Ludo shrugged, unbothered by the accusation in his sister’s voice. “Will you play with me, Elsie?”

“No,” she said flatly.

“Pleeeeease,” he whined, “I’m so bored!”

“Play by yourself then. You’re going to have to get used to it, anyway. I’m not coming home for the holidays this year, I’m staying at Hogwarts with Barty.”

“You’re supposed to spend Christmas with your _family_.” Ludo huffed, throwing himself onto the sofa. 

“He’s my family too.” She smiled, ruffling her little brother’s hair while he pouted dramatically. “Go on, go play.”

A few minutes later, Elsie was in the kitchen making lemon tarts and Welby was sitting on the countertop, eating a carrot and giving her instructions.

“I’m sorry about today, Welby.” she had told him. “Ludo can be such a menace sometimes.”

“Young Mistress need not apologize,” he said, handing her an egg, “Welby knows young Master Ludo is simply spirited.”

“Spirited,” she snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

“But Welby is grateful for Mistress Elsie’s intervention. Last time, Welby was on the ceiling for an hour before Master Bagman found him.” The elf shuddered.

“Don’t worry about it.” She grinned, handing him a spoonful of lemon filling to lick. “I’m on your side.”

* * *

Welby lay on his side in Elsie’s arms as she and Bartemius made their way up to the family cemetery. The gravesite was on a steep cliff overlooking the sea, surrounded by a small forest. The waves were deep and stormy, in contrast with the calm white sky, and tall grass swayed in the ocean breeze.

Elsie lowered Welby into her parents’ grave and covered him with his favorite blanket—a raggedy purple thing she had knitted when she was eleven.

She and Barty were standing side-by-side, in quiet contemplation, when they were both startled by a loud pop.

“Hey, Else!” Ludo materialized in between Barty and Elsie. He was wearing a flamboyant yellow cloak with a Wimbourne Wasps logo embroidered on the front. He slung his arm over Elsie’s shoulder and smiled jovially. “Long time no see, sis!”

“What are you so happy about?” She snapped.

“Whoa, whoa, take it easy, Else.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Just trying to lighten the mood, love, sorry. How goes it, Barty?” He asked over her head. “Things alright at The Ministry?”

“Fine.” Barty said stiffly.

“Better than fine if half of what people are saying is true!” He laughed and punched Barty lightly on the arm, earning him a look of scathing disapproval. “Go on, Barty, don’t be shy! Slighted to be the next Minister, I hear!” He waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially.

“I am simply doing my job, Ludo, nothing more.”

“Ah, so modest!” He winked. “You’ll get it, mark my words—old Fudge hasn’t got a thing on you.”

“Yes, well.” Barty cleared his throat dismissively. Ludo seemed not to have noticed.

“Where’s little B?”

“He had school,” Elsie said quietly. “He’s very busy at the moment.”

“He didn’t want to come.” Barty corrected sharply.

“Ah, well, he’s at that age, you know.” Ludo grinned. “When I was a fourth year, I was quite the charmer; thought I knew it all.”

“Really.” Barty said drily.

“Oh yeah, isn’t that right, Else?” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “Surprised he isn’t here though, at least to see old Welby. I remember he loved that elf—used to follow him around the house and help him dust!”

At this, Elsie burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. Ludo looked at Barty with dismay.

“Blimey, what’ve I said now?” He asked weakly.

Barty shook his head.

“Welby died overnight. We found him this morning. Elizabeth—she’s had a rather difficult time of it.”

Ludo pulled Elsie to his side and wrapped his cloak around her.

“Sorry old mum,” he whispered. “I know how much you loved him.”

Elsie raised her tearstained face to look at her brother and he smiled sadly, smudging a tear from her cheek. She sniffled and leaned into him.

“Come on now, sis, cheer up. Surely you’re nearly out of tears by now.” He elbowed her in an attempt to make her laugh. Barty’s mustache twitched in annoyance.

Reaching into his pocket, Ludo pulled out a tiny mirror encrusted with yellow jewels and handed it to Elsie. She took one look at her mascara-streaked face and broke out in a storm of crying.

“Merlin, I look horrible! What would Mum think?!”

Ludo raised his eyebrows at Barty.

“Don’t want to alarm you, mate, but she seems to be doing a lot of that lately.” He gestured to Elsie who was, once again, sobbing in his arms. Barty rolled his eyes.

By this time, the vicar was arriving, followed by a small group of witches and wizards.

“Come on, Else, it’s time.” Ludo nudged her gently. “Auntie Sheila’s here, look.”

She nodded, swallowing hard.

“I’m ready.”

* * *

Barty, Elsie, and Ludo, along with a few friends and family, stood in black, bracing themselves against the icy wind. The vicar read the twenty-third Psalm from the Bible and led them in singing Be Thou My Vision, Margaret Bagman’s favorite hymn.

Elsie didn’t cry once during the service and, afterward, she stood rather stoically, accepting hugs and condolences with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Despite her brave face, Barty kept a firm grip on her arm, and he could feel her shaking like a leaf.

When the last person had Disapparated, the three of them were left standing by the grave, where the freshly dug dirt was piled in a soft mound at the foot of the headstone. As though obeying some unspoken agreement, they turned silently and began making their way back down the rocky path.

Suddenly Elsie froze, staring intently at the trees.

“I can see it.” She breathed, clutching Barty’s arm tightly.

Ludo squinted into the forest but saw nothing except a dead deer. Upon closer inspection, however, the body seemed to be slowly eating itself, bites disappearing one after another.

“Good Lord, is that a—”

“Thestral.” Barty finished. He was able to see them, too—had ever since the day he’d held Charlotte in his arms.

Elsie walked slowly towards it. She could hear Barty and Ludo calling her name, but it was almost as if she was in a trance. She understood it, this creature, and she needed to see it: elegant in its demeanor—gentle and mysterious—but grisly in what it represented. Pain. Death. Suffering.

The skeletal horse raised its head and looked directly at her. She met its milky eyes and, for the first time in her life, Elizabeth Crouch realized what it meant to see the Thestrals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is it possible that these chapters keep getting longer and longer? XD  
> This one was a pain to write, I don’t know how many hours I spent moving things around and re-reading until I couldn’t see straight.  
> I had a lot of fun with the Ludo/Barty/Elsie dynamic. Ludo is fun to write and, hopefully, he helped to offset some of the angst of this chapter. I tried to put enough fluff and fluff and humor in to at least keep from being completely depressing. (But, you know, I’m trying to stick mostly to canon and, considering what eventually happens…prepare for some bummers, lol.)  
> ANYWAYS, I’ll be back on the 7th with chapter 11 and, until then, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFeet xX


	11. Obligations

_April 1976_

_"Mr. and Mrs. Bartemius Crouch,_

_You are cordially invited to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’s fifth annual Alumni Reunion. Join us for light hors d'oeuvres, a wide selection of beverages, and the chance to reacquaint yourselves with classmates and professors alike. It is sure to be an evening filled with memories and merriment._

_If you are planning to attend, please send an owl to Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall by no later than April 1st._ _Formal attire is recommended._ _We look forward to seeing you._

 _Sincerely,_ _Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall"_

Elsie folded her invitation for the hundredth time and tucked it back inside her cloak. Outside the castle, it was overcast and stormy, but she lingered on the steps for a moment longer, finding herself rather nervous at the prospect of being reunited with her old teachers and friends.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the Great Hall and was immediately bathed in warm, comfortable yellow light. The hum of chatter reached her ears and she smiled. Hogwarts was exactly how she remembered it.

The Great Hall was decorated beautifully; the walls were lined with elaborate ice sculptures, the ceiling was crossed with glossy, interwoven streamers of gold, scarlet, sapphire, and emerald, and fairy lights hung, suspended and glittering in the air. Eclairs, macarons, and cream puffs were piled on giant silver platters next to golden butter cakes and cherry pies, and crystal cauldrons of liquid stood at the ends of the tables, filled with champagne, mulled mead, Elderflower wine, and Firewhisky.

A House Elf in a miniature brown bowler hat offered her a goblet of wine and she took it, smiling her thanks. Around her, old classmates and professors were talking and laughing; discussing their careers and children and reminiscing about their Hogwarts adventures.

She waved hello to a tiny older wizard who was wearing bright purple robes and he lit up, making his way under arms and past swishing cloaks until he was standing in front of her.

“Miss Elsie!” Professor Flitwick greeted her, shaking her hand enthusiastically. “How lovely to see you!”

“That’s ‘Mrs.’ now, Professor Flitwick, remember?” She smiled.

“And that’s ‘Filius’ to you, now, my dear.” He said cheerfully. “How are you, then? Keeping Bartemius in line, I expect?” He winked conspiratorially.

“Not in the slightest.” She grinned.

Professor Flitwick threw his head back and laughed.

“I hear very good things about him, these days, very good indeed! Most successful Head of Law Enforcement we’ve seen! He’ll be the next Minister, you mark my words!” He said, his eyes bright. “I expect you’re very proud of him.”

“Very proud.” She beamed. “He works hard, my husband. Of course, I _had_ hoped he might be able to make it tonight, but…well, he is Head of the department, after all, as you say.”

“His work is never done, I imagine!”

“Never.” Elsie replied drily and Professor Flitwick chuckled.

“Ah, well, it’s nice to see _you_ here, in any case, Elsie. You were a wonderful student—had quite the talent for Charms as I remember.”

“I suppose it runs in the family—my son speaks quite highly of you as well. He rather enjoys Charms, though I don’t think he would admit it. Something about it ‘being a girls’ class.’” She rolled her eyes. “He’s at a slightly difficult age at the moment—I hope he hasn’t given you any trouble.”

Perhaps it was Elsie’s imagination, but he suddenly looked slightly uncomfortable.

“Well, you know, they all go through a bit of that teenage business. I—oh, would you excuse me for a moment? I believe Pomona is calling me.” Indeed, the Herbology Professor was waving vigorously to him, the apples of her cheeks bright red and laughing so hard she was nearly in tears.

Elsie smiled to herself and drained the last of her wine, which immediately refilled itself with Firewhisky, as though it somehow intuitively knew that she needed it.

She almost never drank, but occasions like this had a way of making her feel very awkward and out of sorts. Thanks, in part, to the help of her replenishing goblet, Elsie’s self-consciousness had dulled and, to her surprise, she was finding the evening quite enjoyable, even sans Bartemius. She chatted with several of her old schoolmates—Joycie, Sharon, Nadine, and Kathryn—and toasted the Professors who had so graciously put up with them during their time at Hogwarts.

After an hour or so of reintroductions and polite small talk, Elsie wandered over to an ice sculpture of Bridget Wenlock and stood, quietly sipping her drink and observing the festivities.

Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the throng of people.

“Elizabeth Crouch!”

Elsie turned to find none other than Abigail Fudge and Mafalda Hopkirk standing arm-in-arm, holding twin flutes of champagne. Rita stood beside them, her notebook and Quick Quotes Quill gripped tightly in her hand as though they were glued there with a Permanent Sticking Charm.

All three of them were dressed to the nines: Mafalda wore a gold taffeta dress that complemented her caramel hair beautifully, Abigail had on a brilliant ruby gown with long, flowing sleeves, and Rita wore a floor-length emerald green dress that clung to her like a second skin.

“Abbie! Mafalda!” Elsie squealed, launching herself at them and nearly knocking the glass out of Abigail’s hand. “I was hoping you’d be here!”

Rita scowled.

“I’m chopped liver, am I?"

“I saw you last week.” Elsie waved her away, turning back to Abigail and Mafalda. “It’s _so_ good to see you.”

“You too, love.” Abigail clinked her glass against Elsie’s. “It’s been forever since we’ve had our little Wives Club!”

“It has.” Elsie agreed. “It’s been, what? Nearly a year I think?”

Abigail opened her mouth as though she wanted to say something and then closed it again, looking down and brushing an invisible wrinkle out of her dress. Then, suddenly, she looked up at Elsie, who was surprised to see her friend looking rather teary.

“I’ve been an awful friend lately, Elsie.” She said quietly. “I’m sorry. All this business with Cornelius and Barty battling it out for Minister…you know it doesn’t change anything between us.”

“Of course not,” Elsie said firmly, squeezing her hand. “You’re my best friend, Abbie. I would never let anything come between that. Least of all our stupid boys.”

“Ten galleons says mine’s dumber than yours.” Abigail grinned and bumped her hip playfully.

_“Speaking of your husbands,”_ Rita interjected, sidling up between them, “I don’t suppose one of you might have a teeny little comment for me?” She held up her acid green quill, waggling it suggestively. “Any truth to the rumors that Minchum might be retiring soon?” 

Elsie and Abigail exchanged meaningful glances.

“Oh, come on, not even for a friend?” Rita pouted. “One of your _best_ friends?”

“Well…” Abigail began.

“Go on,” Rita said eagerly, the green quill nearly jumping out of her hand in excitement.

“Nope.” Abigail shook her head.

“Absolutely not.” Elsie said.

Rita frowned and turned to Mafalda.

“You work in the Improper Use Office.”

“Yes…” Mafalda said, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Oh, go on, Maffie, give us a quote!” She pleaded.

Mafalda leaned forward very seriously and motioned for Rita to come closer.

_“You’re a prat.”_

Rita slumped forward dramatically and the four of them collapsed into a fit of giggles like they were fourteen years old again.

They were still doubled over laughing when Dolores Umbridge approached them, failing to notice her until she cleared her throat delicately.

“Good evening, ladies.” she smiled with the telltale sweetness she reserved for social events.

“Oh, god, who invited her?” Rita stage-whispered.

“Hush, Rita!” Elsie smacked her arm. “It’s good to see you, Dolores. I love your dress.”

Elsie did not, in fact, love her dress. It was garishly pink and shaped like a cupcake, but a bit of embellishment wouldn’t do anyone any harm. Besides, judging from the barely-contained look of disgust on Rita’s face (and the quill twitching viciously in her hand), the poor woman could use all the compassion she could get.

Dolores Umbridge had been a first year when Elsie was in her seventh year at Hogwarts. A tiny little Slytherin, short and chubby, she'd been an easy target for the older students, even those in her own house. Elsie found her in the dungeons one day, crying and attempting to brew a Witch Watchers diet potion. Taking pity on her (and perhaps because she was missing Barty especially badly), Elsie invited the girl to eat lunch with her.

She had been painfully quiet as Elsie asked questions about her classes and family, keeping her eyes on the floor and only shaking or nodding her head in response. It wasn’t until Elsie asked her about what she wanted to do when she grew up that she managed an answer.

_“Iwanttoworkattheministryofmagic.”_

“The Ministry?” Elsie asked.

Dolores nodded, going red in the face.

“Well, I think that’s wonderful! My boyfriend works in the Auror Office—he’s the assistant to the Head of the Department.”

The little girl seemed to come alive at this, raising her head and looking at Elsie with bright eyes.

“Really? Could you introduce me?”

“Of course,” Elsie said, smiling at the girl’s enthusiasm. “He’s not all that high up, but he does know several Department Heads. And he’s quite good friends with the Junior Minister. I’ll send him an owl, perhaps he can come and visit over the holidays.”

From that moment on, Dolores had stuck to Elsie like glue. This, of course, horrified Rita, who couldn’t stand “that little toad,” but Elsie insisted that they include her at least once a week—inviting her to play Exploding Snap with them, study in the library, or to join them in Hogsmeade on Saturdays. Truth be told, Abbie and Mafalda weren’t altogether keen on it either, but as time went on, they all got used to one another and even became friends, if one was using a very loose translation of the word.

None of this, however, kept Rita from making fun of her any chance she got. Just like in her first year, Dolores was easy prey, and Rita, ever the predator, kept her talons sharp.

Tonight was no exception. She was eyeing Dolores’ kitschy dress with an opportunistic gleam in her eyes when, mercifully, she was headed off by Madam Pomfrey. (Dolores took full advantage of this, muttering something about getting a drink and disappearing into the crowd.)

The Hogwarts Matron was older now, and her face was lined with subtle wrinkles, but she was just as good-natured as ever.

“My heavens, if it isn’t the fabulous four!” She exclaimed happily. “Ms. Hopkirk, Mrs. Fudge, Ms. Skeeter—still have that quill I see! And Elizabeth Crouch!” She beamed. “Hogwarts’ finest Potioneer!”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Elsie laughed. “I seem to remember causing you a fair amount of grief.”

“Not nearly as much grief as you saved me!” The older woman shook her finger. “Your Cure for Boils was a godsend during that Spattergroit outbreak. You might have considered a career as a Healer, rather than spending all that time down in the dungeons.”

“As it turns out, I chose a rather different path than either of those—and one far more difficult,” Elsie said waggishly. “Motherhood.”

Madam Pomfrey mimed fainting, placing the back of her hand on her forehead.

“Glutton for punishment!” She shook her head good-naturedly.

Elsie grinned.

“Something like that.”

“Speaking of which, how is that ‘just friend’ of yours?” Madam Pomfrey asked knowingly.

“Oh, he’s fine. Causing me just as much trouble as ever.” Elsie said wryly.

“You two were a perfect match if I’ve ever seen one. Quite the pair! And—oh! Speak of the devil!

Elsie spun around and found Barty standing behind her with a bellflower in his hand.

“Bartemius Crouch!” She gasped. “You told me you wouldn’t have the time!”

“I managed to sneak away.” He said, handing her the flower.

Elsie was thrilled to see him and was pleased that he seemed genuinely happy to be there—not as though he was simply fulfilling another obligation. She pushed herself up on her toes and kissed him lightly.

Rita feigned gagging, but Madam Pomfrey smiled proudly.

“You two look happy.” She said, patting Barty on the shoulder. “I’m glad.”

“Elizabeth and I owe you quite the debt of gratitude, Madam Pomfrey. Were it not for your intervention, we may have remained ‘just friends.’”

“Bah,” Madam Pomfrey said, waving a hand, “you two would’ve figured it out eventually. I just helped speed things along a bit.”

“Well, whatever the case, we are very grateful to you,” Barty said. “But if you will excuse us, I would very much like to dance with my lovely wife.”

Grinning over her shoulder at her four friends and Madam Pomfrey, Elsie took his outstretched hand and let him lead her into the Entrance Hall, which had been converted into a resplendent silver dance floor.

Barty wore a suit and black robes, the same clothes he wore every day to the Ministry. He looked lovely, of course, and very handsome, but Elsie was used to seeing him like this and it came as no great surprise to her.

She, however, wore a long, grey, silk dress with tiny flecks of glitter brushed into the fabric. Her blonde hair (now with noticeable streaks of grey) was fixed in a messy updo, and she had on the slightest amount of makeup—feathered black eyeliner, evanescent, snow-colored lipstick, and a dusting of blush across her nose and cheeks.

It was all having quite the effect on Barty, who had found himself a bit breathless at the sight of her.

“Shall we dance?” He asked, as steadily as possible.

“You hate dancing.” Elsie smiled, looking up at him and slipping her arms around his waist.

“Perhaps I would enjoy it more were I able to actually execute the steps. But,” he conceded with a nod, “I know you enjoy it, and so I am willing to sacrifice any personal dignity I might have retained.”

She laughed at his formality. She’d always liked the way he talked, even though there was a general swotiness about it. (He insisted that he “merely sounded professional.”)

“I might be persuaded to part with one dance, as long as you promise to tell me all about that proposal you submitted to the Department today.” She fluttered her eyelashes teasingly.

It reminded him of his seventh year at Hogwarts; he up to his eyeballs in work, and she still able to make him smile.

Bartemius felt a rush of affection for his wife and he leaned down impulsively to kiss her on the cheek.

“What was that for?” She asked in surprise. He wasn’t usually one for public displays of affection.

“Just thinking about our younger selves.”

“It’s odd being back, isn’t it? We spent so much of our time here.”

He nodded in agreement.

“We danced in this exact spot on Christmas Eve.”

“You were so handsome.” She beamed. “Though not quite as handsome as the night we snuck out. Do you remember?”

_“You_ snuck out.” He said, causing Elsie to look at him with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “Strictly speaking, I was Head Boy and had every right to patrol the corridors. _Looking,_ I might add, for wayward Hufflepuffs who were out after hours.”

Elsie gave him a light shove.

“Doing a lot of patrolling, were you? Because if _my_ memory serves, you were a bit too engaged in—” (Here Barty promptly went red and cleared his throat loudly, looking around to make sure no one was listening.) _“—other activities.”_

* * *

_May 1960_

It had all been borne from a shortage of time. Elsie was drowning in O.W.L work and Barty was busier than ever, preparing for his final examinations and applying to the Ministry of Magic in his spare time. They rarely saw one another anymore—there simply weren’t enough hours in the day.

But, when Elsie had suggested to Barty that they sneak out after curfew, his answer had been a resounding no.

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun!”

“No.” He’d said flatly. It’s against the rules.”

“Please, Barty? Just for tonight?”

“I’m Head Boy, Elizabeth. Can you imagine what would happen if we were caught?”

“I miss you.” She had murmured, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Meet me by the kitchens at midnight if you change your mind.”

“Absolutely not.” He said, kissing her back.

At 12:06, Barty Crouch stood anxiously outside the Hufflepuff Common Room, checking his watch every few seconds. He was just about to give up when she came stumbling out of the entrance, barefoot and tripping noisily over a barrel.

“Shh!” He hissed. “Where have you been?”

“Sorry! Katie took forever to fall asleep and then I met Mafalda in the Common Room, so I had to swear her to secrecy.”

_“You told her?”_

“Don't worry, she won’t say anything,” Elsie assured him. “Actually, she thought it was rather romantic.”

Barty rolled his eyes, but he grabbed her around the waist and kissed her soundly nonetheless.

“I’ve missed you, too.” He said.

They snuck quickly through the corridor, holding hands: Elsie muffling giggles in her sleeve and Barty looking over his shoulder every seven seconds.

Barty stopped outside the Prefect’s bathroom, glancing furtively around before whispering the password.

“Mountain Aven.”

The door swung open and she followed him into an expansive white room.

“Are we having a bath?” Elsie asked, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

“No, of course not. I just thought you might like to see it. And it’s quiet—we won’t be interrupted.”

“Interrupted?” Elsie raised her eyebrows. Barty went scarlet.

“N—no, I didn’t mean—I certainly did not intend to insinuate any— ‘interrupted’ only to imply that I— _we_ —could speak in private without—”

“Barty. Barty!” Elsie laid a hand on his arm. “I’m joking.”

He gave her a look that was so Head Boy-ish she was surprised he didn’t dock points from her then and there.

“For heaven’s sake, Elizabeth…” He muttered. “…nothing to joke about…” Drawing his wand, he cast Colloportus on the door to seal it as Elsie turned to survey the room.

It was made entirely of stone—pale white marble—and in the middle was a deep, sunken basin, sloping in depth from three to six feet and surrounded by what looked like hundreds of copper taps. Huge columns protruded from the pool, stretching all the way up to the ceiling, and a stained glass window was set into the wall, its brightly enameled crystal turning the moonlight rainbow-colored.

“I should have been a Prefect!” Elsie groaned, circling the taps and experimenting with different ones. Bright blue water poured out of the first, followed by thick pink foam from another and some kind of rose-smelling oil from a third.

“No one in their right mind would have appointed you school Prefect.” He said drily. “Not even Professor Slughorn.”

“Well, lucky for me, I happen to be _very_ close with the Slytherin Head Boy, and he can sneak me in.” She retorted.

Barty laughed before he could stop himself, his lips twitching up into the cute half-smile that Elsie loved. She grinned and turned back to the taps, examining them for a moment before apparently deciding that the bathtub was full enough and turning them off. The water was nearly waist-deep now, and was giving off a flowery scent from the pink foam that covered the surface.

With one backward glance at Barty, Elsie slipped out of her shoes and waded into the tub, shivering as the warm water soaked through her robes.

“What on earth are you doing?” He asked in alarm.

“Having a swim.” She said innocently. “Are you coming or not?”

He prodded the surface cautiously with his foot.

“You can’t get in with your shoes on,” She wiggled her toes at him. “Or your robes, really. My mum says warm water is bad for the fabric.”

“You seem to be managing perfectly well in your clothes.” He pointed out.

Elsie looked down at her sodden robes in consideration.

“Hmm, you’re right. I shall have to do something about that, then, won’t I?” She said, unfastening her robe. Next came her sweater and skirt, followed by her blouse and, finally, her tie, all landing with a splat at Barty’s feet. Her shoulders glistened in the moonlight as she raised one eyebrow up at him.

His face went from red to completely white.

The next thing Elsie knew, Barty Crouch was standing at the edge of the basin in nothing but his knickers; his clothes folded neatly in a pile by the sink. He hesitated for a moment, looking as though he was dealing with a rather intense inner conflict, before diving in without warning, drenching Elsie completely. Spluttering indignantly, she wiped the hair out of her eyes and looked around for him, ready to engage in a serious splash war. He was still underwater, though, hidden by the thick layer of foam and bubbles.

“Barty?” She called softly.

Silence.

_Surely he could swim? What was he doing under there? Oh no, what if he’d hit his head on the bottom of the tub and was unconscious? How would she get him out of here and what would she tell Professor Slughorn and—_

“BAH!” He suddenly burst up beside her, sending waves rippling throughout the water. Elsie threw her hands up and screamed, squeezing her eyes shut. Barty roared with laughter.

“That was not funny!” She said hotly, breathing heavily and clutching her chest. “Honestly, Barty! You scared the daylights out of me, I thought you’d drowned!”

“My apologies.” Barty grinned as she crossed her arms.

Suddenly, he froze.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Shh—someone’s heard us. “Barty whispered. “McGonagall.”

Sure enough, the doorknob began to rattle forcefully.

“What the devil…” Professor McGonagall muttered from the other side of the door. “ _Alohomora_.”

Barty and Elsie looked at one another in horror. Swiftly, he grabbed her arm and pulled her behind one of the columns that protruded from the bathtub, not a moment too soon.

The door flew open.

Elsie gasped and Barty clapped a hand over her mouth. She looked back at him, her green eyes the size of dinner plates. He shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips.

“Hello?” Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out sharply. “Who’s in here?” She walked to the edge of the tub and pointed her wand at the water, instantly melting the bubbles and foam. Narrowing her eyes, she peered into the water, no doubt expecting to find a student hiding underwater using a Bubblehead Charm.

At this point, Elsie may as well have been plastered to Barty for how tightly she was flattened against him. Her back was flush against his bare chest and she could feel his heartbeat against her skin.

“Hmph.” Said Professor McGonagall, evidently satisfied that the room was empty. She turned sharply on her heel, her tartan nightgown swishing behind her as she swept out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Barty and Elsie remained frozen as McGonagall’s footsteps faded down the corridor.

After a minute of total silence, Elsie spun around to face him, pale and wide-eyed.

“That was—”

“—Exhilarating.” He said, looking as though he was surprised by his own assessment.

_“Exhilarating?”_ Elsie gaped at him. “You’ve officially gone mad.”

“Evidently you are a bad influence on me.” He said, puffing himself up with feigned pompousness.

“Well, I can’t take credit for _all_ of it,” she grinned, “but, you know. I do what I can.” She splashed him, stifling a laugh at the look of stunned indignation on his face. He raised one eyebrow and advanced on her, sending a wave of bathwater crashing down over her head.

She swallowed a bit accidentally, prompting a slight coughing fit.

“Are you alright?” He swam quickly over to her and placed a hand on her back.

There was suddenly very little space between them and he was so warm and the air was paper-thin.

“Um, yes.” She said quietly. “Yes, I’m…I’m fine.”

They locked eyes and Elsie felt a little shiver zap down her spine. Judging by the intensity in his gaze, she knew he felt it too.

Slowly, he took her hands and pressed her up against the marble column.

Wordlessly, she nodded.

“Are you sure?” He asked in a hushed voice.

“I’m sure.” Her green eyes were mesmerizing as she looked up at him, running a hand through his dark hair.

“Oh, Merlin.” He muttered.

She hummed softly and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, slipping her arms around his waist.

Quite suddenly, he stiffened, pulling away from her.

“Elizabeth, this...is not something to be taken lightly. I need to know that you are one hundred percent sure.”

“Barty.” She said meeting his gaze and letting her fingers drift down his neck. “Shut up and kiss me.”

As though that were all the invitation he needed, his mouth was on hers, gentle and fervent at the same time. His hands were drifting lower, lower, lower, and her arms were wrapped around his neck; her mouth sighing into his.

He eased himself in and she whimpered, clinging tightly to him and digging her fingers into his shoulder blades.

“Elizabeth.” He groaned into her neck, making a noble but unsuccessful effort to control his breathing. She was trembling, each breath a shallow gasp.

“Is…is this alright?” He asked, looking down at her with concern.

“Yes.” she panted. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He was only too happy to oblige.

* * *

_April 1976_

Looking at one another now, dancing together in the Great Hall all these years later, it was as if no time had passed at all.

She was staring up at him with a potent mixture of admiration and longing and Barty could feel his pulse climbing. The question danced in her eyes and he knew exactly what she was asking him.

“The password is ‘Hyssop.’” He said quietly, meeting her eyes and seeing his own desire reflected there. Her mouth was so close that he could feel her soft breath on his ear.

_“Come on then.”_

As inconspicuously as possible, they slipped from the hall and up the staircase, hand in hand as their unsuspecting classmates danced below them.

“Have you always been such a bad influence on me?” He asked, slightly out of breath as the two of them hurried down the fifth-floor corridor.

“It’s good for you.” she giggled. He kissed her thoroughly—a difficult feat as they were still moving but, nevertheless, achieved with minimal clumsiness.

They stopped in front of the door and Barty gave the password in between kisses to her jaw. It swung open and he pulled her inside, closing it and casting Colloportus just as he had done sixteen years ago.

The copper taps and marble bathtub all but forgotten, he had her up against the stone wall, working methodically at her throat. She threw her head back and moaned as he kissed down her neck and across her collarbone.

He was Head Boy again and she was the beautiful, sweet fifth year who was saving his life.

“Oh, Barty, don’t stop.” She gasped.

He was only too happy to oblige.

* * *

“How did you know the password?” She murmured afterward, as he intertwined his fingers with hers.

“I might have had a bit of help from Madam Pomfrey.” He kissed her bare shoulder.

“Mm, I’ll have to remember to thank her.” Her laugh was soft and throaty and he could have spent a thousand years just staring at her; memorizing her eyes, her nose, her lips.

“I love you, Elizabeth.”

The kiss was slow and heartbreakingly sweet and, when it ended, Elsie rested her forehead against his.

“Don’t stop.” She whispered.

He was only too happy to oblige.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is! What absolutely no one wanted or asked for: Bartybeth smut!  
> Can I just say, for the record, that writing smut is very difficult? Everyone makes it look so easy, but I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, lmao.  
> Anyway, this chapter came to me from some mystical land of the unknown—usually my chapters are based on ideas that I’ve had planned for a while, but this one literally jumped into my head out of nowhere. It was one of those “I don’t even what’s going to happen until I write it” chapters, but I’m actually pretty pleased with how it turned out! 
> 
> ANYWAY, I hope you liked this chapter and, as always, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFeet xX


	12. Wives Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note that the level numbers at the Ministry are reversed due to it being underground (level 8 would be the lowest floor and level one would be the highest), so just keep that in mind as you’re reading!
> 
> (Also, once again, don’t look too closely at dates and things—I’m doing my best, but there’s one or two timeline issues that are a little wonky. I’ll fix that someday, lol.)

Elsie Crouch had barely stepped into the atrium at the Ministry of Magic when a plump man with orange robes and a black cane tipped his hat to her (“Lovely to see you, Mrs. Crouch, I do hope you’re well.”) The fact that people recognized her was always surprising, though not uncommon these days. One of the many side effects of having a husband in the public eye, she supposed. Personally, she wasn’t much for the spotlight—all the questions and stares and newspaper articles—it all seemed so strange. Bartemius felt the same, truth be told. It was necessary, and he put up with it, but he would just as soon be the puppeteer pulling strings behind the curtain: powerful but unseen.

“Wand, please?” A freckled wizard with blazing red hair and kind eyes brought Elsie back from her thoughts.

“Oh, yes! Sorry about that.” She smiled at him. His name tag read “Arthur Weasley” and he looked young—possibly fresh out of Hogwarts. He examined her wand and, finding everything to be in order, returned it to her.

“Have a lovely afternoon, Mrs. Crouch.”

“Same to you, Mr. Weasley.” She said, joining the crowd of witches and wizards who were queuing up to get onto the lifts.

Because it was midday, the lifts were packed with people, most returning from their lunch break. Elsie was perfectly happy to wait, but a short, rather energetic man spotted her and insisted that she take his place. (“It would be an honor, Mrs. Crouch! Please tell your husband that my potion weaponization report will be ready in a jiffy!”) Elsie assured him that she would, but realized as the grilles began to close that she didn’t even know his name.

“Oi, hang on a minute!” The crowd of people jostled about as someone pushed their way to the front. It was Rita, breathless and sweaty, her glasses slightly askew from the effort.

“Rita?” Elsie raised her eyebrows.

“Hello, love!” She said brightly. Then, pointing at a young, blonde-haired witch next to her said, “You, get off. You can take the next one.” The poor girl promptly scampered out of the lift and the grilles closed once more.

Squeezing in beside Elsie, Rita leaned up against the wall and winked, her gold teeth glinting.

“That wasn’t necessary, Rita,” Elsie said ruefully. “You shouldn’t throw your power around like that.”

“Well, what on earth’s the point of having it, then? Besides, you’re one to talk. Ever since Barty threw that pureblood what’s-his-name in Azkaban, you two’ve been the talk of the town! Mr. Crouch this, Mr. Crouch that—it’s all I hear anymore. Bet Cornelius is fit to be tied.” She grinned.

Elsie glanced around to make sure no one was listening. They all were, of course, but pretended very convincingly not to be.

“I…yes, I imagine he probably is.” She said quietly. “But you know, Barty’s just doing his job. He isn’t in this for the fame.”

“Ugh, I know, I know, he’s a wonderful man and you’re absolutely in love with him. _Please,_ I’ve just had my lunch and I’d like to keep it, if you don’t mind.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m assuming you’re here to see him, then?”

“No, actually, I’m visiting Mafalda,” Elsie said, ignoring Rita’s barb. “We’re meeting for tea.”

“How _is_ old Maffie?” Rita asked, examining a chip in her bright yellow nails. “I haven’t seen her around in ages. Mind if I join you?”

“No, of course not, she’d love to see you.”

“Actually, we ought to grab Abbie as well—make it a bit of a reunion! She’s usually here around this time—probably in Corny’s office.”

“Alright, let’s pop up to M.A.C and see if we can find her. But you know, if we invite her, we really should invite Dolores.” Elsie closed her eyes as if to brace herself for Rita’s inevitable reaction.

“What?! No!” Rita stamped her foot. She rather reminded Elsie of Barty Jr. during his temper tantrum phase.

“Don’t be so unkind,” Elsie said.

“What is it with you and that hag? She’s _such_ a downer.” Rita moaned. “No fun at all.”

“She doesn’t have many friends, I’m just trying to be nice to her. And she’s just…organized, that’s all. A bit overzealous perhaps but, in truth, she reminds me a bit of Barty sometimes.”

“Huh. Maybe that’s why I don’t like her then.”

_“Rita.”_ Elsie said sharply.

“Oh, I’m sorry. But, honestly, would it kill the man to have a little fun?”

“Probably.” Elsie smiled wryly.

Rita shook her head.

“For the life of me, I will never understand what you see in him. If you were so hell-bent on a Slytherin, you could’ve had Fenton Malfoy—he was head over heels for you!”

“I didn’t want Fenton Malfoy.” Elsie's voice was quiet.

“No, you wanted a pompous, legalistic ass.”

“He is not an ass!” Elsie said indignantly. Rita raised one very emphatic eyebrow. “Alright, fine, he is _sometimes_ an ass,” she conceded, “But he’s _my_ ass.”

* * *

The lift was much less crowded by the time Rita and Elsie reached the third floor—the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Fudge’s office was at the very back of the hallway, past a length of green carpet and dark wooden office doors that were indistinguishable but for their gilded nameplates.

When they reached his door, Elsie knocked gently.

“Yes?” Fudge's voice called warily.

“It’s Elsie.”

“Oh, come in, come in!” He said, sounding relieved.

The door swung open to reveal Cornelius pacing around the room and Dolores Umbridge sitting in a dark yellow armchair, taking dictation.

“Hello, Elizabeth.” He smiled. “…And Rita. “I was afraid you were Phellis for a moment—he’s been after me all morning trying to get his report expedited, as if I haven’t a mountain of paperwork overdue already.”

Umbridge nodded importantly.

“Dolores, we were just looking for you!” Elsie said.

“We were looking for _Abigail._ ” Rita clarified. “I thought she might be here.”

“She was, just a moment ago. I don’t know where she’s got to, but she’ll be around here somewhere.” Fudge said.

“We’ll find her.” Elsie turned to Dolores. “Fancy a spot of tea?”

“I’d love to,” she replied seriously, “but there’s simply too much to be done.”

“Nonsense,” said Cornelius. “Go on, I’ve plenty to keep me busy.”

Rita groaned and Elsie shot her a silent warning over Dolores’ head. She crossed her arms and gave Elsie what was clearly an _“if we must”_ look.

“I’d imagine she’s probably up on level two—Hopkirk likes to chat with her during lunch. You might check there.”

“Thanks, Corny.” Rita smiled cheekily. Fudge opened his mouth to respond but evidently thought better of it and simply shook his head, waving them out of the room.

* * *

Just as Fudge said, the three women found Abigail on the second floor, having tea with Mafalda.

“Abbie!” Elsie gave her friend a quick hug before dropping down into the chair next to her. “It’s been ages! How are you, how’re the girls?”

“They’re a right pain, I tell you. Be glad you’ve a boy.”

“Oh, he’s trouble enough sometimes!” Elsie laughed.

Abigail's smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Elsie understood suddenly that she and Mafalda had been deep in conversation about something, and whatever it was had her quite upset.

Before she could signal to the other women that perhaps they should give them a moment, Rita hopped up onto the desk and crossed her legs, swinging her blue stilettos back and forth.

“How’s tricks, love?”

“Things are fine, thank you, Rita.” Mafalda answered her, even though it was Abigail that Rita had been addressing.

Dolores, who looked rather confused but was evidently trying to be of some help, placed a stubby, ring-laden hand on Abbie’s shoulder.

“Abigail? Are you quite well, dear?”

“Hmm?” She looked up distractedly. “Oh, yes, I’m alright. Just tired is all.”

Her face _was_ swollen and puffy, giving her the distinct look of sleep-deprivation, but Elsie knew the splotchy red patch below her left eye meant that she had been crying.

“Is it Cornelius?” Elsie knelt down beside her.

Abigail nodded and looked away, unable to meet her friend’s eyes as her own brimmed with tears.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dolores asked gently.

When Abigail shook her head, Mafalda stepped in. “If it’s about how busy he’s been, it isn’t anything to do with you. He just has a lot on his plate, we all have. I’m sure he would rather be home, given the choice.”

“Oh, and how would you know?” Abbie snapped tearfully. “Your husband’s—”

“…Dead?” Mafalda asked mildly.

Elsie gasped. Dolores’ eyes went wide. Rita choked on a mouthful of Abbie’s tea.

Abigail brought a shaking hand to her mouth.

“Oh, god, Mafalda, I…” She looked aghast. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

There was a stunned moment of silence in which Elsie was certain that Mafalda was going to throw her tea in Abbie’s face. But, instead, she reached across the desk and took her hand, patting it tenderly.

“I understand, Abbie. You’re just upset.”

Quite suddenly, Abigail burst into tears. Dolores, Mafalda, and Elsie all exchanged looks with varying levels of alarm.

“He’s never h-h- _home!”_ Abigail sobbed. “He spends more time with _you_ than he does me,” she cried, pointing to Dolores, who opened her mouth to protest, looking nervous.

“Abigail, dear,” Dolores began, eyeing her anxiously, “you know I would never...”

“No, I know, of course I know,” Abigail shook her head. “I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. It’s just this bloody war has him at the office all hours of the night and when he _is_ home, he’s in an awful mood—it’s making me crazy. _You_ understand.” She said, gesturing to Elsie.

“Of course I do,” Elsie said. “Barty's the same way.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer. “I threw a frying pan at him last July.”

Abigail made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“I’m sorry.” She said again, wiping her eyes. “I’m just being dramatic, you know me. Forget it, I don’t want to talk about it. Tell me something else—what are you all even doing here?”

“Well, actually, we were looking for you. We thought you might like a spot of tea, although, from the looks of it, you’re probably all set.”

“Are you kidding?” Abigail said, her eyes regaining some of their familiar brightness. “There’s always room for more tea.”

* * *

When they were all settled at a small table in the corner of the fifth-floor tearoom, it suddenly became clear that none of them quite knew what to say. It had been a long time since they'd met for their little Wives Club.

At one point in time, the five of them met for tea at least once a week, talking and laughing for hours about their husbands, careers, and, eventually, children. Things dropped off a bit over time—Rita began writing for the Prophet and Dolores rose quickly in the Ministry ranks—soon both of them were far too busy to take tea anymore and it was just Elsie, Mafalda, and Abigail.

It wasn’t long after this that Cornelius and Barty (thought cordial to one another in public) were set at odds against one another as a result of their political ambition—both fighting fiercely in the hopes of becoming the next Minister for Magic. Things became uncomfortable between Abigail and Elsie; awkward—like they were tiptoeing around one another. And so, rather than jeopardizing their friendship, The Wives Club had unofficially disbanded.

The sad truth of the matter was that they had simply outgrown themselves—they were all headed in different directions. Except, of course, for Abigail and Elsie, who were being dragged along by their husbands in the same direction, hanging on for dear life. But the Wives Club had become obsolete.

Oh, they still saw each other once in a while—at Ministry functions and World Cups and the occasional tea—but it was like a tangled, complicated diagram: Elsie would have lunch with Rita and Dolores, but never at the same time; Abigail and Mafalda would meet for tea, but not with Rita; Dolores and Mafalda never spoke at all. There was a very specific order to things that everyone understood but no one voiced. Like the spell that had been holding the five of them together had been broken, and they were all now untethered, with nothing but their past to connect them.

And they all pretended that it was fine.

Besides, they told themselves, the name was outdated anyway—Elsie and Abigail were the only two proper wives, after all. After Mafalda’s husband was killed in a raid and Rita’s two-year marriage to Gilderoy ended in a messy and very public divorce, it really didn’t fit anymore. And Dolores had never been married to begin with.

But somehow, amazingly, here they were, nearly seven years later—all of them older, greyer, and with more than a little emotional trauma, but still bound to one another, even after all this time.

Rita, of course, was the first to break the silence.

“So,” she tapped her long yellow nails on the table. “Got any news, Maffie?”

“Well, I…I saw Gilderoy yesterday.” Mafalda said uncertainly.

All eyes immediately flew to Rita, who arranged her features into a mask of bored indifference.

“And?” She raised a nonchalant eyebrow.

“He looked well. I mean...he _has_ been quite successful…all those books…” she trailed off.

_“Ha!”_ Rita spat venomously. “I know Gilderoy Lockhart and he did _not_ travel with any troll. All those stories about curing werewolves and banishing banshees? I don’t buy it. The man’s scared of Thestrals, for Merlin’s sake!”

Elsie sighed and set her cup in the saucer.

“Why don’t you just write him, Rita?” She asked gently. “You two were good together. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”

“I doubt it.” She scoffed. “After all the things we said to each other? No, far better to let _that_ sleeping dragon lie.”

The four women exchanged looks as Rita pouted silently. Abigail leaned forward and dropped a cube of sugar into her tea with a plink.

“Elsie’s right, you know. You could meet for a coffee, catch up…who knows? You might even get a story out of it.”

“I said no.” Rita snapped. “Drop it.”

“…Do you still love him?” Mafalda asked tentatively, scooting her chair closer to Dolores as though she felt it was safer to be out of arm’s reach.

“He’s an absolute tosser.” Rita looked bitterly into her tea as though it were her oolong’s fault that she and Gilderoy had broken up. “Of course I still love him.”

“Then you should talk to him. He’s off on these mad adventures all the time—who knows what could happen?” Mafalda glanced down at the ring she still wore on her left hand. “If I had the chance to see Wendell again…you know, the day that he…the morning of the raid, I didn’t even say goodbye to him. He’d forgotten our anniversary the night before and I was angry. I…I'd shouted at him.”

No one spoke for a moment as Mafalda dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Wasn’t your fault,” Rita muttered. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Marriage is rubbish.” Abigail said suddenly, holding her teacup out.

_“Agreed.”_ Rita held hers up as well, followed by a misty-eyed but determined Mafalda.

“Well, I…yes, I suppose.” Dolores faltered, adding her own cup to the mix.

Everyone looked at Elsie. Slowly, she lifted her willow-patterned teacup and clinked it against theirs.

“To rubbish.”

They all stared at her. Dolores looked almost disappointed.

“But you and Bartemius are so perfect together!” She looked down at her pink nails.

“Oh, that’s not what anyone at Hogwarts thought.” Elsie smiled wistfully. “They were all shocked when we announced our engagement—I expect most of them thought it wouldn’t work out.

“Whyever not?”

“Well, I was a fifth year when he was a seventh year, for starters. And he was quite studious, Barty. Very hard-working. He kept mostly to himself. Mafalda used to call him the Slytherin that should’ve been a Hufflepuff.”

“Don’t see it, myself,” Rita interjected, “but go on.”

“Elsie never really liked other boys,” Abbie said. “But it was different with Barty right from the beginning. It was odd, we all thought so. He was so pretentious— _sorry, Else_ —and very serious, and we all thought he was a bit annoying, really.”

“He was,” Elsie laughed. “But, you know, he’s come quite a long way.”

“Oh yes,” Rita deadpanned. “Proper risk-taker, now, is he?”

“Shut up.” Said Abbie and Elsie at the same time.

“Of course, he and Ludo couldn’t stand one another.” Rita’s lips were raised in a half-smirk.

“That’s not true!” Elsie protested. “Barty just thought he was…”

“Completely irresponsible?” Supplied Abbie.

“Well…yes, a bit.” Elsie acknowledged. “And my brother…well, Ludo sort of thought that—”

“—Barty had a stick up his arse.” Rita nodded sagely.

Everyone at the table burst into laughter; even Elsie, who had to duck under the table momentarily to regain her composure.

“Hard to imagine Bartemius as a teenager,” Dolores said after they had all caught their breath.

“He was born an adult, that one.” Rita rolled her eyes. “Junior, on the other hand…” she placed a hand over her heart in exaggerated affection, “that’s a boy after my own heart. Who’d he get the fun gene from, Else?”

“Ludo, I would imagine.” She said drily.

“How _is_ BJ, by the way? He must have been twelve the last time I saw him.”

“Um…” Elsie floundered for a moment. “Well, I don’t know, really. He’s doing good in school—academically, at least. But he’s been in a bit of trouble lately. Apparently, Minerva caught him practicing a banned hex in the fifth-floor corridor, and we’ve had an owl from Flitwick as well.”

“Flitwick?” Mafalda raised her eyebrows. “Can’t imagine him writing home unless it was serious.”

“I think it _is_ serious.” Elsie said in a low voice. “They’re considering stripping him of his Prefect badge. I really don’t know what’s gotten into him, he was always such a good boy.”

“What does Bartemius think?” Abigail asked.

Elsie closed her eyes for a moment and, when she opened them again, looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the amount of sleep she'd been getting.

“I haven’t seen my husband in a month.” She said quietly. “He gets home after midnight and leaves at 4:30. He’s been sleeping some in his office, I think.”

_“What?”_ Abigail was staring open-mouthed at Elsie.

“Is he…I mean, are you two alright?” Rita asked, trying very hard to conceal the journalistic interest in her voice.

“I don’t know, Rita, I honestly don’t. Things were so good for a while and then I lost Charlotte and he just…shut down. He won’t go in the nursery, he refuses to talk about her…he can barely look at me—” Her voice broke. “I miss him.”

“Oh, Elsie.” Mafalda, who had been sitting across from her, got up and walked around the table to give her a hug.

“You need to talk to him,” Abigail said firmly. “He does not get to check out and leave you to deal with this on your own—sleeping here and leaving you all by yourself…absolutely not. And you _have_ to tell him about Barty. You know he’ll hear about it from Albus eventually and that’ll be even worse.”

“You’re right.” Elsie sniffled. “No, you’re right, of course. I just don’t quite know how to go about it.”

“You march yourself straight up to his office is how you go about it. And if I need to come with you and set him straight, you know I will.” Abigail narrowed her eyes. (She was joking, of course, but entirely serious.)

“That goes for me as well,” Mafalda said bravely, raising her teacup once more in a toast.

“And me.” Dolores joined in.

Rita sat quietly until everyone was staring at her. Abigail cleared her throat.

“Who me?” She widened her eyebrows innocently. “Of course I’m in—wouldn't miss an opportunity to give Barty Crouch hell, would I?”

They all laughed again.

“To us, then.” Abigail said.

“To us.” Echoed Dolores.

“To mischief and mayhem.” Rita grinned.

“What friendship has brought together, let no one tear apart.” Mafalda lifted her chin.

“To the Wives Club.” Elsie said.

And at the same time, as though they had rehearsed it, the five women clinked their teacups together and spoke in perfect unison:

“Forever.”

* * *

After the girls had said goodbye and gone their separate ways, Abigail and Elsie stood in the lift, headed back up to Fudge’s office.

Abbie had asked what was going on with Barty Jr. and Elsie was struggling to come up with an answer.

“He’s sweet, but I do worry about him. He and Bartemius still don’t get on…it’s just exhausting.”

“Things will get better, darling, don’t worry. He’s just a teenager, they all go through it. Last year, Miranda didn’t speak to me for nearly a month because I wouldn’t let her go to the Weird Sisters concert.” Abigail waved a hand dismissively. “It’ll all work out with Barty. _And_ Barty.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right—I’m a Gryffindor, remember?”

“Oh, is that how that works?” Elsie raised her eyebrows and laughed.

“Yes, that is how that works.”

“Well, I had no idea, thank you for enlightening me.”

Abigail grinned.

“Now, then.” She clasped her hands together as the lift clattered to a stop. “Let’s off to annoy our husbands.”

* * *

“Back again?” Fudge smiled but didn’t look up, his head barely visible from behind a tremendous stack of papers, very much as they had left him.

“Back again.” Abigail said, putting a hand on his shoulder which he distractedly patted.

“Lucky me.” He winked at Elsie. “You’re welcome to hang about, Elizabeth—keep Abigail out of my hair.” Abbie laughed and thumped him good-naturedly but Elsie saw the vague shadow of hurt in her eyes.

“Actually, I thought I’d go and see Barty before I leave,” Elsie said. “If I can _find_ him, that is.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can hunt him down,” Abigail said, “What do you think, Cornelius?”

“Er, yes, well I...” he muttered, gesturing to the stack of papers on his desk and looking rather uncomfortable at the prospect of being involved. “Very busy...lots to do, you know...”

“No matter,” said Abigail brightly, taking Elsie by the arm, “we can find him ourselves, I expect. Is he in his office, darling?”

Cornelius said nothing and continued writing what looked like a memo to the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad.

_“Cornelius.”_ Abigail covered his sheet of parchment with her hands.

“Hmm?” He looked up in surprise and it was clear he hadn’t heard a word of her question.

“Is Barty in his office?”

“Oh, erm, probably, yes.” He said. “He’s been working with Bardolph on a new bit of artifact legislature. I believe they had a meeting this afternoon.”

“Thanks, love.” Abigail kissed him quickly. “We’re off, then.”

“Mmm-hm.” He mumbled, already back to his paperwork.

* * *

Abigail was rather quiet on the way to Barty’s office and Elsie knew exactly what was bothering her.

“I’m sorry about Cornelius.” She offered.

Abbie looked momentarily alarmed at the possibility of having to discuss her feelings for the second time in one day, but quickly regained her composure.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She shook her head. “Same old story, isn’t it? He works too much, I yell, he yells, he feels guilty and promises to do better, then he continues to work too much and sends me flowers to make himself feel better.”

Elsie bit her lip, feeling the familiar sting of her own struggle.

“Oh, but I don’t want you to think it’s all bad,” Abigail said hastily, after seeing the look in Elsie’s eyes. “I’m not trapped in a loveless marriage or anything. I do love Cornelius, of course, but it’s just that he can be so anti-adventurous sometimes.”

“Anti-adventurous?” Elsie arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like something a Gryffindor would come up with.”

“Surely you don’t mean to tell me that Barty’s some kind of daredevil?”

“Well, no, I suppose he is a bit, what is it? Anti-adventurous?” She laughed. “Although not when we were younger, actually. He may not have instigated any mischief, but I could usually convince him to go along with it.”

“You’re a bad influence, Abigail giggled, “You should’ve been in Gryffindor with me.”

“Oh, I imagine I’m a bit too passive for the house of bravery.”

“Well, fortunately for you, bravery is a muscle,” Abigail said, gesturing to Barty’s office door where they now stood. “Flex it.”

With an encouraging nod from Abigail, Elsie knocked firmly upon the door. The sounds of shuffling papers and a scratching quill stopped as a curt voice called out, “Yes, come in.”

“Hey, Crouch.” Abigail opened the door and smiled at Barty, who was bent over a roll of parchment with his glasses teetering on the end of his nose.

“Ah, good afternoon, Mrs. Fudge.” He said. “What can I do for you?”

“You have a delivery.”

“Is it from Bardolph?” He asked, furrowing his eyebrows. “I was told he wouldn’t have the records finalized until—” he broke off as Elsie stepped inside. Abigail gave her hand a quick squeeze before slipping out of the office and closing the door behind her.

“Elizabeth.” Barty managed to paper over his discomposure with a look of surprise. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He relaxed into her embrace but didn’t move to kiss her back. “I just thought I’d check on you—make sure you’re eating, being nice to your assistants, that sort of thing.” She smiled. _“Have_ you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“Barty.” She crossed her arms warningly.

“I will have lunch as soon as this report is finished. Wendell is waiting on it.”

“Your _report,”_ she said, taking the paper out of his hands, “is not due until next Thursday. I think you can spare thirty minutes to eat.”

He gave her a crisp glare, the impact of which was lessened considerably by the sound of his stomach growling.

“Elizabeth, you know I hate eating in the cafe. It is too loud and I can’t have a moment of peace without some Rita Skeeter knockoff buzzing around.”

“You’re in luck, then.” She said, pulling two cucumber sandwiches out of her bag. “Lunch has come to you.”

Barty sighed in exasperation.

“You’ve thought of everything then, I suppose?”

Out came a flask of pumpkin juice. Barty sucked in his cheeks and motioned impatiently for her to sit.

“Out with it, Elizabeth. What’s the matter?”

 _“Nothing.”_ She said, pulling up a chair beside him and handing him a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. “Does a woman need an excuse to visit her husband?”

He accepted the sandwich, meticulously refolding the paper after he’d unwrapped it, and they chewed silently, both glancing around the office to avoid looking at one another.

Elsie’s eyes kept returning to a piece of parchment on the wall, framed and embossed with a gold Ministry seal and a purple ribbon pinned beside it. _‘Bartemius Crouch: Order of Merlin, Second Class.’_ It was dated the night of their eleventh Anniversary.

There was some emotion stirring in her throat—some combination of sadness and anger that she didn’t understand and was too exhausted to think about.

Turning away, she caught sight of a second framed piece of paper. This one was old and tiny and sat on Barty’s end table in the corner of the room. The paper was creased and yellowed with age, but the words were as vivid as ever. Written in a child’s handwriting, in bright blue crayon:

_I love you Father._

Elsie’s heart clenched painfully in her chest. She remembered the day their son had made it for Bartemius. The fact that he’d kept it all these years…

She could feel him staring at her; boring holes in the back of her head.

“I…I’m worried about Barty.” She said, keeping her eyes on the floor.

Bartemius pressed his fingers to his temples.

“I see. This is what you wanted to discuss.”

_“No,”_ She said defiantly, “I told you, I was coming by anyway. It _is_ nice to see your face in the _daylight_ sometimes.”

He looked at her sadly, his eyes betraying the disquiet that he felt. Even more troubling was the fact that he _couldn’t_ remember the last time he’d been home before sunset.

“I see the way you look at me, Elizabeth.” He said quietly. “I know what you must think. For whatever it is worth, I _am_ trying. I dislike feeling so…helpless. The baby was supposed to be a fresh start. A chance for me to atone…to right my wrongs. And then she...and I wasn’t there for you.” He closed his eyes, looking older and greyer than ever before. “And I thought perhaps you could use some time away from me.”

“All I _have_ is time away from you.” She could feel herself getting upset. “All day at home, it’s just me and Winky. I haven’t seen the girls in forever and you get home at some ungodly hour in the morning and Barty’s away at school…and now he’s getting into trouble and I have to hear about it from _Flitwick?_ He doesn’t even write me anymore, I don’t know what to do!”

“What kind of trouble?” He asked sharply.

“Nothing. I don’t know. He’s—Flitwick said he’s ‘exhibited some disturbing interests.’"

“That is unacceptable.” He said at once. “I shall speak with him.”

“No,” she said quickly, “That is exactly what I don’t want. He already thinks he’s let you down, I don’t want you to—”

“Let me down?” Barty cut in, looking affronted. “Why on earth would he think something like that? Utter nonsense.”

“Wouldn’t you feel the same way if your father never spent any time with you?” She asked quietly.

Barty bristled.

“I do not need you to remind me that I have been an absentee father, Elizabeth, I am well aware. But he doesn’t _want_ to spend time with me, I have tried! I even offered to take him to that blasted Wimbourne match—he has no interest in repairing our relationship.”

_“Yes, he does.”_ She slammed her hand on the desk. “He _does_ , Bartemius. He’s just afraid to need you. He doesn’t want to let his guard down because he’s scared he’ll be disappointed. He’s trying to protect himself.

Barty looked nauseous, as though this realization had shaken him to the very core.

“Tell me what to do.”

“Show up.” She whispered forcefully. “I don’t want time away from you. Show _up_ for me, Barty. Show up for your son.”

He nodded slowly and silence fell between them. Somehow, though, it wasn’t quite as heavy as it had been before.

Then, without warning or provocation, Barty’s lips were on hers. He kissed her thoroughly, his mouth moving against hers as though he were a man dying of thirst and she a desert oasis. Her response was equally as fervent, wrapping her arms around his waist and uttering the tiniest, heartbreaking moan.

When they broke apart, he cleared his throat and looked almost embarrassed.

“That was lovely.” Elsie said breathlessly.

He chuckled and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

“And long overdue, I daresay.”

She leaned over onto his shoulder and looked up into his warm brown eyes.

Her voice was hopeful when she asked him, “Will you come home tonight?”

And she knew he was sincere when he murmured, “I promise.”

* * *

To Elsie’s surprise, Abigail, Rita, Mafalda, and Dolores were all waiting for her in the Atrium. When they saw her, they immediately crowded around and began peppering her with questions.

“Well? How did it go?”

“Did you tell him about Barty?”

“Did you tell him to get his arse home?”

“Did you tell him to—”

_“Alright!”_ Elsie held up a hand to shush them. “One at a time!”

She glanced over at Abigail, who seemed uncharacteristically nervous.

“How _did_ it go?” She sounded as though she was afraid of what the answer might be.

“A bit awkward at first,” Elsie said honestly,” but then I brought up Barty, and…I shouted and he kissed me, and, well, it all sort of worked out.

“After you shouted?” Rita asked dubiously. Elsie nodded. “Well, if that’s all it took, you should have been doing that all along. Come to think of it, though, maybe not—you’d have about eleven other little Elsies and Bartys, wouldn’t you?”

“Would you stop that?” Elsie swatted Rita’s hand, which was performing a somewhat impolite gesture. “We didn’t _do_ anything, we just kissed. It was rather nice, actually. He was very sweet.”

_“_ Ew,” Rita said. “I’d rather you talk about shagging him.”

Elsie laughed.

“Well, if there’s any chance of _that_ , I need to get home before he does.” She wiggled her eyebrows and Rita plugged her ears. “I really _had_ better get going, though. The house is a mess; it’s Winky’s day off.” She turned towards the glassy obsidian fireplace.

“Hey, Else! Proper job!” Rita called, grinning. Then, softer: “I’m proud of you.”

“Me too.” Abigail said.

“And me as well.” Mafalda took Elsie's hand.

“Well done, dear.” Dolores nodded. 

Feeling a sudden rush of gratitude, Elsie threw her arms around them.

“I’ve missed you all so much.” She whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

They stood there for at least a minute, hugging and crying, until Rita finally disentangled herself.

“Alright, enough, enough.” Rita rolled her eyes. “We all love each other, everything’s peachy, God save the Queen. Now get out of our hair and go shag Barty.”

* * *

Elsie had long been asleep by the time Bartemius returned home. She was curled up on the sofa in front of the fireplace—mostly ash and dimly glowing embers at this hour—asleep with a copy of Witch Weekly open beside her. Barty took in the familiar and comforting sight as he hung his hat and cloak on the back of the door and lowered himself onto the couch beside her.

She nestled closer to him, one of her bare feet slipping out from underneath the blanket. He shook his head and smiled. Her cold feet had always been a bit of a private joke between the two of them—he often said that she would be cold in the middle of Egypt.

As though she sensed his presence, her eyes fluttered open.

“Mm. What time is it?” Elsie blinked sleepily at her husband, yawning as if to punctuate the lateness of the hour.

“Half-past midnight.”

“Oh, Barty, really.” She frowned. “You’re going to land yourself back in St. Mungo’s one of these days.”

“You know how busy it is at the office right now. And the interns are completely incompetent; nothing gets done if I’m not there to do it.”

She sighed exasperatedly and raised herself up to kiss him on the cheek.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she said, giving him one of those looks that made his heart melt. “I worry when you work so late.”

“I know.” He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Things will be a bit slower over the next few weeks. We’re getting a couple of new bodies up at M.L.E to assist with the paperwork. Perhaps we can visit your parents.”

“They’d love to see you.” She agreed. Privately, she was overjoyed at the thought of going on holiday. They hadn’t been anywhere since Barty had been named head of the department, unless you counted the Quidditch World Cup, during which there was never any less than five crises requiring her husband’s immediate attention. No, a bit of rest would do him good. She could see the stress that shadowed his eyes and she tried to keep the accusation out of her voice when she said, “You look tired.”

“I am.” He sighed. “It was a long day. Mundungus Fletcher was on trial again—petty theft—and I couldn’t get a conviction. If that boy applied his talents to something other than criminal activity, he would have a very bright future indeed. As it is, however…”

Elsie hummed sympathetically.

“But no matter,” he smiled down at her. “Tomorrow will surely be better.”

“It’s already tomorrow.” She said wryly. “The night’s half over, you know.”

“Well then, we should be off to bed, shouldn’t we?”

She took his outstretched hand and he helped her to her feet. With a flick of her wand, the blanket re-folded itself as Barty straightened the couch cushions and doused the fire.

The dark, shadowed staircase (tricky at the best of times with its steep, uneven steps) was even more difficult to maneuver in the evening, as evidenced by Barty stubbing his toe and swearing sharply. Elsie twisted around to kiss him and his scowl disappeared under the soft warmth of her lips.

Fortunately, the two of them made it safely upstairs with no further incident, aside from Elsie yelping as she slid into the cold, satin bedsheets.

“Would you hurry up? It’s freezing under here!”

Barty was barely in bed before Elsie snuggled up beside him, her tiny frame shivering violently.

“Do not put those feet on me,” he warned, about a millisecond before she put her ice-cold feet on him. He grimaced exaggeratedly and she giggled, their noses less than an inch apart.

When he took her hands—equally as cold as her feet—and rubbed them between his, he marveled for the millionth time at how much he loved this woman. Despite her cold extremities, she was impossibly warm—sweet and forgiving and wickedly funny. Not one person who knew Bartemius Crouch was likely to describe him as having a notable sense of humor, but Elizabeth could make him laugh like no one else. Opposites truly did attract, he mused.

He thought he would have been happy just to look at her all night as he tipped her chin up and ran a thumb across her jaw. She gazed at him through half-lidded eyes, tipsy with drowsiness and longing.

It had been a long time—since before they lost Charlotte—but the look she was giving him was unmistakable and he knew it well.

His head was suddenly cobwebbed with a heady mixture of contentment and desire. And when she murmured a soft, breathy _“Barty,”_ he drew her close and affirmed his love for her using everything but words.

* * *

Two hours later, Elsie woke suddenly, gasping and clutching at her chest.

“What? What is it?” Barty asked sharply, groping in the dark for his wand.

“It’s Barty.” Her eyes were wide with fear. “Something’s wrong.”

_“What?”_ He sat up quickly and turned the lamp on.

“I saw him.” She whispered, her heart still pounding. “I saw him, Bartemius. He was acting normal but he was…out of sorts. It wasn’t him, but it _was_ him and he wasn’t—he was— _hurting people.”_

“You were dreaming, Elizabeth.” He said wearily, collapsing back onto his pillow. “Go back to sleep.”

“But—”

“It is the middle of the night. If anything is wrong—although I am certain it isn’t—it can wait until the morning.”

“No, I need to owl Dumbledore—and Filius as well.” She reached for the quill on her nightstand, but Barty stopped her, taking her trembling hands and holding them tightly.

_“Elizabeth._ Stop. Look at yourself, you are in no condition to do anything at the moment. Please. Just take a breath.”

She did, the air leaving her lungs with a shuddering exhale.

“It was…a dream.” She said quietly.

“Just a dream.” He repeated. “But I would be happy to owl our son in the morning if that would put your mind at ease.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, he’d like to hear from you I think.”

“I’ll send a letter before I go tomorrow.” He laid a hand on her back. He could feel her clammy skin through the thin veil of her nightgown. “Lie down now, you need to rest.”

Reluctantly, she curled up next to him, pulling her knees up to her chest and staring at the shadows on the wall. She’d been having nightmares for months, ever since they lost Charlotte. Visions of horrible things happening to their family—Bartemius dead, Barty shrouded in darkness, and she herself powerless to save either one of them.

After a long moment of silence, she spoke.

“What’s going to happen to me, Bartemius?”

“What do you mean?” His eyebrows knit themselves together in concern.

“...When you make Minister and Barty graduates and moves away...I’ll be all alone.”

“Oh, Elizabeth.” He took her into his arms as she started to cry. “You are not alone. Please don’t cry.”

“I know I’m b-being silly, but I d-don’t want to be by myself. I worry every t-time I get an owl that th-they’ll be telling me you’ve b-been attacked or k- _killed—_ ”

“No one is getting killed.” He said firmly. “I will be _fine._ The Auror office is well-equipped and extremely competent. I understand it seems frightening at the moment, but things _will_ settle down eventually when this wretched war is over.” 

“Promise me.”

“I promise you I will be alright. Shh, don’t cry. Don’t cry.” He stroked her hair. “You’ll wake Winky. And she’ll have my head if she thinks I’ve upset you—she’d likely slip one of your experimental potions into my coffee and send me to work with three heads.”

She was still snuffling a bit but she managed a laugh, breathy and wobbly and punctuated by a harsh shiver.

“Come here.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, promptly making a face when her feet made contact with his. “Every night, like clockwork.” He muttered. “Why are your feet always so bloody cold?”

She giggled and twisted around to look at him.

“Cold feet, warm heart.” Her willow-colored eyes sparkled in the dim light.

“Yes,” he said, smiling wryly as she yawned.

He studied her thoughtfully. She was beautiful. Not necessarily in the classical sense—her nose was a bit more pronounced than she would have liked (something she was rather insecure about), but Barty could have stared at her for hours, like Muggles in one of their art galleries.

“What?” She whispered.

“Hmm?” He asked, drawn from his reverie by her voice. “Oh, nothing. Simply reflecting on how lucky I am.” He trailed his fingers down her arm.

“Mmm, I like that, you should tell me that more often.” Her voice was thick with sleepiness and she let her head fall onto his chest. He smiled and pressed his lips to her forehead.

“I love you, Elsie.”

She was breathing softly, already asleep. Barty kissed her once more for good measure and extinguished the lamp before succumbing to sleep himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever! I’ve had the idea for it since April and, originally, it was going to be three different one-shots—Wives Club, Elsie’s nightmare about Barty Jr. and a sleepy little Barty/Elsie fluff piece. All of them were way too short, though, so I decided to combine them and dump in a couple pounds of angst just for funsies. :)
> 
> Anyway, this one was a little tough, partially because I’ve just started a long-term teaching assignment and partially because I was just feeling insecure about my writing and doing that whole “Is this even any good? Am I just repeating the same recycled hurt/comfort plot over and over? Is this chapter way too boring?” thing. I really need to learn how to get out of my own head sometimes. Oof.
> 
> Anyway, this is another long one—I hope not too long! Y’all let me know if the dialogue is confusing or doesn’t make sense. It’s tricky to write a group of people without saying “Rita said,” “Elsie said,” “Abigail said,” etc. 
> 
> ANYWAY, thank you so much for reading! I’m still very excited about this story and where it’s headed, and I will see you all on October 7th!! 
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFeet xX


	13. Fish in a Bowler Hat

The year that Elsie and Barty’s son was born was one of the most precious and meaningful of their lives.

They hadn’t exactly been trying, but they hadn’t exactly been not trying, either. It was one of those things that just sort of fell into place, bit by bit. Elsie had always wanted children and Barty (though he personally would have been content with or without) had always expected that they would start a family someday.

When they were first married, they had agreed that Elsie would take a contraceptive potion—she was working at Horace Slughorn’s apothecary and Barty was just beginning to advance at the Ministry—but somewhere along the way, this fell by the wayside.

It started innocently enough—one weekend, when they were in Dover visiting Barty’s parents, she had forgotten to bring a flask of it with her. That evening, when Barty kissed her neck and ran his fingers up her thigh, she shook her head and whispered urgently to him that she hadn’t taken her potion today.

He kissed her soundly and gave no indication that he had heard her, save for the momentary pause in his roving hands.

After that night, there seemed to be an unspoken understanding between them. She began taking the potion less and less until, eventually, she stopped making it altogether. And Barty, though he never mentioned anything to her, stored the cauldron upstairs. 

Things continued on as normal until Elsie realized, some three weeks later, that her period was late. She was washing dishes (the muggle way, as she sometimes liked to do) when it suddenly dawned on her. The dishrag hit the floor with a waterlogged splat and she stood motionless, mentally reviewing exactly how many days it had been. Almost a month.

Leaving the rest of the dishes half-scrubbed in the sink, she hastily threw on her cloak and Apparated straight to the apothecary, where she promptly had a very awkward exchange with Horace Slughorn, who had emerged from the storeroom just in time to see her retrieving a vial of Conceptum Experior (a powerful pregnancy detecting potion) from the highest shelf.

“Late night visit?”

“Oh my—” Elsie started, whirling around. “Merlin, Horace, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Guilty conscience, eh?” He winked mischievously.

“What are you still doing here? It’s nearly eight, you should be home by now.”

“Your husband,” he began, wagging his finger affably, “sent me an owl requesting a new batch of Polyjuice for the Auror Department. Said they won’t buy from anyone else—premium stock, you know.” His chest swelled with pride.

“Yes, well, speaking of my husband, I’d better be off.” She said a bit too quickly. “He’ll be home in a bit and I have tarts in the oven.”

Slughorn tapped his nose knowingly.

“Oho, don’t think you’ve distracted me that easily! When were you planning to tell me about the new addition to your family?” He grinned, eyeing the half-hidden blue bottle behind her back

“I—I—I wasn’t—”

“No need to explain m’dear, I’m just pulling your leg! It’s a wonderful thing! Didn’t know you and old Barty were trying!” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “But, you know, you really should take that Conceptum here—it’s a delicate compound, as I’m sure you remember, and Apparition can interfere with the results.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Yes, you’re right, I wasn’t even thinking. Pregnancy brain, I suppose. Or, well, perhaps not.” Elsie looked uncertainly at the little blue vial.

This particular potion was one of Slughorn’s own invention, and was a much more accurate pregnancy test than the finicky charms that had been popular in earlier years. In essence, it was somewhat similar to Polyjuice Potion (although Conceptum Experior had a much longer shelf-life.) Once the ingredients were added and the potion left to simmer for 23 days, one simply needed to add a drop of their blood to the mixture. If the witch in question truly was pregnant, the Conceptum would turn a vivid shade of orange. (If not, the potion would remain it's original silvery blue.)

Taking out her wand, Elsie drew it across her index finger. A small cut opened up and she held the bottle under her hand to catch a single drop of blood.

When the potion glowed orange, as she’d suspected it would, Slughorn laughed jovially and clapped her on the back.

“Congratulations, Elsie! Hate to lose you, of course—best young potioneer we’ve had since Letha Davenport—but I’m happy for you! I’m sure you can’t wait to tell Barty.”

_Barty._

Her stomach dropped.

_What was she going to tell Barty? He knew that she hadn’t been taking her contraceptive potion, but they hadn’t even discussed the possibility of starting a family…what if he hated the idea? What if they weren’t ready? What if she had completely ruined everything?_

“Alright, m’girl?”

It took her a moment to realize that Slughorn was still talking to her.

“Oh—yes, I’m fine. Just…well, I need to get home…tell Barty, as you said…” She bit her lip. “Oh, dear.”

“Ah, don’t worry, Elsie! Don’t give it a second thought. Barty’ll be chuffed. And you’ll make a fine mother.” Slughorn wrapped her up in a bear hug. “Now you get on home and tell that man he’s going to be a father.”

* * *

Barty was home a bit later than usual—almost ten o’clock—but he was surprised to find the table set and Elsie waiting for him in the living room.

“Elizabeth, I’ve told you before, there is no need to wait for me. I would certainly never expect you to—” he stopped abruptly, noticing the silver candlesticks and his grandmother’s china. “What's going on?”

“I—um, I think maybe you’d better sit down. Here, have a drink.” She pressed a goblet of wine into his hand and he took a draught despite the suspicion in his narrowed eyes.

“What is this, Elizabeth? Is everyone alright? Good Lord, has someone died?”

“Everyone is fine, Barty. I just…there’s something I have to tell you and I...I don’t quite know how you’ll respond.” 

“You’ve been promoted.” He said at once. “Slughorn—he’s asked you to run the apothecary.”

_“No,”_ she laughed, “would you listen?” The smile faded from her eyes and she fixed him with an uncertain look. “I…Barty, I’m pregnant.”

The air was thick and tense and she couldn't breathe as he stood staring at her for one heart-stopping moment. Elsie felt her stomach drop.

Then, before she knew what was happening, she was in his arms and he was spinning her around, saying something that she couldn’t quite understand because the blood was pounding in her ears and he was talking a mile a minute, but she knew it was good because his smile hadn’t been this bright since the night he proposed.

“This is _wonderful_ news, Elizabeth.” He held both her hands securely in his. “This calls for a celebration.” He handed her a flute of champagne.

She looked at the drink and then back at him, raising her eyebrows.

“Oh!” He snatched it back in horror. “Of course, you can’t…yes, of course, we’ll get you some...” He rummaged around in the cupboard for a clean goblet. “Aha.” A stream of amber-colored liquid filled the glass. “Apple juice.” He said triumphantly.

Elsie giggled and took a drink before putting her arms around him. Head buzzing in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol (and everything to do with her apple-flavored lips), Barty kissed her earnestly, his hands creeping into her hair.

Dinner lay forgotten on the table as he swept her up into his arms and carried her upstairs, miraculously managing to avoid injuring either one of them.

They paused for a brief moment on the landing when Barty became a bit preoccupied with that one spot just below her throat. She hummed appreciatively and slipped her hands inside his robes.

“We’ve already got one.” She whisper-laughed. “Trying for another, are you?”

“I love you.” He said thickly. A deep shiver rippled through her and she unfastened his cloak and pushed it from his shoulders, where it was soon joined by an assortment of other clothing.

Hours later, when they fell into a blissful and exhausted sleep, Elsie and Barty lay curled up together, her cold feet on his and his hand resting on her stomach.

* * *

Eight months later, it was becoming very difficult for Elsie to remember how enthusiastic she had been at the prospect of starting a family. Her stomach was huge, she couldn’t remember anything, and her bladder was on an absolute rampage. She’d had a difficult pregnancy with Barty Jr. thus far, exacerbated by the fact that Bartemius had been promoted to Junior Minister of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and was consequently a great deal busier.

Still, she was thankful to be in her third trimester. Those first few months were by far the most trying. She had been sick every day, without fail, in both the mornings and evenings, and the slightest thing would send her into hysterics, including forgetting to pack Barty’s lunch one day, over which she cried for nearly an hour (despite his insistence that he “truly did not mind eating in the cafeteria” and “please do not upset yourself.”)

Fortunately for both of them, Winky had been an absolute godsend, looking after Elsie on top of attending to all of her regular household duties. The elf could actually be rather frightening when it came to making sure that she got the proper rest and nutrition. And, besides all this, it was simply nice for Elsie to have company during the day. The girls dropped by every once in a while, but they were all busy with their own careers (or, in Abigail's case, raising two daughters of her own.) Elsie spent most of her time with Winky— playing cards, having tea, and, most recently, teaching her to read. (All of this in between bouts of crying and vomiting, of course.)

For his part, Bartemius had been incredibly supportive. His promotion kept him busy, but he always managed to make it home in time to eat supper with her and hold her hair back when she inevitably vomited it up again. He also, with a remarkably small amount of grumbling, put up with her keeping the house at a swelteringly high temperature—pregnancy, it seemed, had done nothing to improve her constant state of cold, and he graciously pounded around the house in boxer shorts and a muggle t-shirt to keep her comfortable.

As her due date approached, Elsie stabilized a bit. She had a fair amount of trouble with back pain, but she was sick much less frequently, although she did occasionally still get nauseous in the evenings. Overall, however, she was feeling much better and had quite a glow about her.

Barty, on the other hand, was becoming more and more apprehensive as the days ticked by and, recently, had been forced to admit something that he did not at all like to admit—he knew woefully little about being a father. He realized this with some alarm after witnessing Nickolai Bardolph's young son trip and fall in the Atrium and trying very ineffectively to comfort him. (“There now, no need for tears—after all, crying never solved anything, now did it?”) Needless to say, the boy was not impressed and Barty was left with an overpowering sense of existential dread at the inevitability of fatherhood.

He had not spoken to Elizabeth about this fear, opting instead to borrow a few volumes on successful parenting from Nickolai. He'd found this to be very helpful and had even resorted to keeping a book of notes on topics he thought particularly useful.

Some of these points had him feeling rather guilty, especially the one that read: “The expecting father should endeavor to spend as much time as possible with his wife during the period of pregnancy, most especially if this is the first child to be conceived. She is likely very anxious regarding the prospect of childbirth and will greatly benefit from a modicum of increased spousal support.”

After reading this (and speaking to Winky, who confirmed that Elsie was, in fact, feeling a bit lonely,) he decided that he would start going into work earlier so that his evenings would be free to spend with Elizabeth. Every morning, he left the house at 4:30 while Elsie was still asleep and Flooed to the Ministry. He was often the first person to arrive at the office, which meant that he was able to spend at least two hours working without interruption before the rest of the staff clocked in at 7.

Following this new system, evenings had become something of a routine for Barty and Elsie—dinner, dessert, and the remainder of the night spent on the sofa, Barty poring over case files in the firelight and Elsie asleep on his chest, covered with a green wool afghan that her mother had crocheted as a wedding gift. When she was well and truly sleeping (he could tell by the sound of her breathing), Barty would place a hand on her stomach and speak quietly to their son, reading The Daily Prophet to him and sometimes telling stories of his own childhood in Dover. He couldn’t quite understand what triggered this strange urge, and it always made him feel a bit silly; nevertheless, he enjoyed their one-sided conversations.

On this particular evening, Barty returned home at the same time he always did; however, Elsie was not waiting to meet him, nor was she in the kitchen with Winky, who was stirring a pot of vegetable soup. (“She is upstairs, Master Barty, but she is not feeling so well today. She is not wanting anything to eat, but Winky is making some soup in case she is changing her mind.”)

Concerned, Barty made his way upstairs to their bedroom. The door was closed and, upon entering, he found the room in near-total darkness, the blinds closed and the curtains drawn. Elsie lay on the bed, breathing shallowly through her mouth. Her hands were pale and clammy and her forehead was damp with perspiration.

“Are you ill, Elizabeth?”

Shaking her head, she held up a finger to ward off any further questions. She was afraid if she opened her mouth she’d be sick.

“Oh—oh dear, let me just…I had better…Winky?” He called, looking rather pale himself. In spite of how awful she felt, she almost laughed—he was hopeless in situations like this.

The House Elf apparated upstairs with a sharp pop, already armed with a cool washcloth and a small flask of pale silver liquid that she carefully poured into Elsie's mouth. The potion took effect instantaneously and she was able to sit up without the room spinning.

She pushed the covers back, gingerly placing her feet on the wooden floor, but even this proved to be a bit too much movement for her. The second she was standing, a fresh wave of nausea washed over her. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she barely made it to the toilet before her lunch made a reappearance.

Bartemius knelt uncomfortably beside her, placing a cautious hand on her back.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, wiping her mouth and casting Scourgify with a shaky hand.

“Don’t apologize.” He said, leaning back against the claw-foot tub and kicking off his shoes. “If I could fix this for you, I certainly would.”

“I know.” She let him pull her into his lap and leaned wearily against him. “Not even born yet and already causing trouble.”

“Evidently he takes after your side of the family,” Barty said wryly.

“Mean.” She stuck her tongue out at him, too weak to think of a clever comeback.

“Come on, now.” Barty groaned slightly as he helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”

By the time they had brushed their teeth and changed into their pajamas, Elsie was feeling much better—well enough to tease Barty about his quill-patterned socks and try to flirt him into bed with her. Of course, she was in no state for such extracurricular activities, but this didn’t prevent them from engaging in a lengthy bout of kissing. This, Elsie privately thought, was just as enjoyable, and they were both more than a little punch-drunk by the time Barty pulled away.

“You're going to give me heatstroke,” he said, rolling up the sleeves of his nightshirt.

Looking thoughtful for a moment, Elsie snuggled up next to him and very carefully placed her ice-cold feet on his calf.

“Better?”

“It is truly unbelievable, the state of your feet.” He scowled. “Eighty degrees in this house and they are _still_ cold. You should be investigated.”

She giggled and pressed closer to him, ignoring his aggrieved, _“Elizabeth.”_

“I'm only trying to help—you _did_ say you were hot.” She grinned. “Besides, you know what I think? I think you secretly like it.”

He rolled his eyes and grazed his lips against her neck.

_“Perhaps.”_

All of the sudden, and with all the poor timing that had unfortunately become expected of him, Cornelius Fudge’s head appeared in their dying fire. Elsie jumped and snatched the covers to her chest, but Barty merely sighed and clambered out of bed, pulling a pair of trousers on.

“Evening, Cornelius. You're calling about Selwyn, I presume?”

“Alastor caught him down in Knockturn Alley an hour ago. He had that disappeared fellow’s wand on him and Priori Incantatem revealed some nasty dark magic.”

“Did they check him for the Mark?”

“He had it.” Fudge said grimly.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Fudge nodded as Barty set about collecting his things and changing into his work clothes.

“Alright, Elsie?” The embery head asked.

“I’d be a lot better if you could let us sleep through the night once in a while,” she said crossly. “He’s supposed to have the weekend off, you know.”

“No weekends in war.” Fudge smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid this is only the beginning.”

“Fabulous.”

Just then, Barty emerged from the closet in his suit and tie. She was more than a bit irritated, but Elsie couldn’t help but think how handsome he looked.

“I’ll be home tomorrow evening.” He said, fastening his cloak.

“Please be careful.” She told him. “No heroics. You just do your job and come home to us.”

“I will.” He nodded curtly, summoning his briefcase. As he turned towards the door, Elsie called after him.

“Barty, wait.” She swung her legs out of bed and ran to him, pressing her mouth desperately to his. Her lips were warm and sweet and all he wanted was to stay with her, but he had responsibilities that needed attending to. He had obligations.

“I love you.” He said quietly. “Take care of that son of mine.”

When he had gone, Elsie slumped back onto the bed and squeezed her eyes shut tightly as though, if she were unable to see the empty space beside her, it wouldn’t really be empty.

* * *

Hours later, when she finally awoke, it was nearly 10 o’clock. Sitting up, she carefully maneuvered herself out of bed—a task she never imagined would be so difficult in her early twenties.

She was strangely energetic this morning and had the inexplicable urge to make lemon tarts. She hadn’t set foot in the kitchen for nearly five months—in the beginning, the smell made her sick, and these days she was simply too tired. (She slept constantly and, yet, when night came, she was somehow always still exhausted.)

Lumbering next door, she found Winky in her tiny bedroom, humming to herself and dusting the dresser. She lit up when she saw Elsie and promptly hugged her around the middle (or tried to, anyway—her stomach presented quite a challenge these days.)

“Winky is glad to see Mistress Elsie feeling better.” The Elf squeaked, patting Elsie on the arm. “Winky is not liking it when Mistress is ill.”

“Trust me, Winky, I don’t much like it either.” Elsie smiled. “I’m quite ready for this little fellow to make his appearance.”

At this, Winky’s mouth broke into a smile.

“I is needing to show you something, Mistress.”

She pulled a tattered brown book from underneath her bed and handed it to Elsie.

_The House Elf’s Complete Guide to Caring for a New Baby._

“I is reading it every night before bed.” She said proudly. “I is not reading so well, but since Mistress is teaching Winky, I is understanding most of it. And I is wanting to be ready for when young Master Barty is coming.” Her big brown eyes sparkled earnestly.

“Oh, Winky.” Elsie’s eyes own filled with tears. “How thoughtful of you. And I’m so happy you’re enjoying reading.” She bent over to lay the book on the nightstand. When she straightened up, she gasped sharply, clutching her stomach.

“Mistress Elsie?” Winky tugged at her skirt. “Is you alright?”

“Mm.” She bit the inside of her lip and winced. “Mm-hmm. I just had a bit of a cramp, that’s all.”

Winky’s eyes grew wide.

“Oh _no,_ Mistress Elsie. I is reading about this. You is not having a cramp, you is having a contraction!”

Elsie shook her head and laughed nervously.

“Oh, no, it’s far too soon for that. And besides, I’ve felt perfectly fine all morning, other than—” she doubled over involuntarily as another wave of pain washed over her.

Looking down, she realized that her thighs were wet and her skirt was soaked all the way through.

“Mistress Elsie,” Winky said quietly, “that is your water breaking.”

The two of them stared at one another in horror for a single moment before another contraction set in and Elsie had to grip the dresser to keep from crying out.

“Call Barty,” she gasped.

“Yes ma’am,” Winky said, “but first you is needing some fresh clothes.” She snapped her fingers and a matching skirt and blouse appeared. Winky handed them to Elsie and guided her to the bathroom. “I is waiting outside while you is changing, Mistress, then we is going downstairs together so Winky can Floo Master Barty.”

Elsie nodded wordlessly and did as she was told. When she reemerged, her face was pale.

“Winky, I…I think we need to hurry.”

Surprisingly, the Elf was very calm as she took Elsie by the arm and helped her down the stairs, pointing sternly at the couch and ordering her to sit. Then, taking a handful of Floo Powder from the mantle, she threw it into the fire.

“Master Barty!” She called.

Elsie couldn’t see Winky’s head, but she could hear her shrill, frightened voice among the now-green flames.

“Master Barty—”

“Winky is supposed to be telling you—”

“Yes sir, but Mistress Elsie is—”

“...Yes sir, I is telling her, Master Barty.”

A moment later, Winky’s head reappeared and her flattened ears instantly told Elsie that Barty was going to be a complete idiot about the situation. And, unsurprisingly, she was not feeling especially charitable toward idiots today.

“Master Barty is saying that he is not able to be talking right now. I is trying to tell him but he is not listening to Winky.”

Smiling sweetly at the Elf, Elsie thrust her own head into the fire and cleared her throat. Barty was sitting at his desk, bent over a crisp piece of parchment, and he gave a start at the sight of her.

“Elizabeth, I instructed Winky to tell you that I am extraordinarily busy today. I’m sure she is more than capable of dealing with whatever is, and when I get home we can—”

_“Bartemius Crouch!_ Would you stop prattling about work for one bloody second and listen to me?” She demanded. Undeterred by the mingled look of disbelief and outrage on his face, she pressed on. “I’m in _labor.”_

He froze, a drop of ink falling from the tip of his quill and splattering onto the parchment below. Paying it no mind, he stood up quickly and made his way over to the fireplace, kneeling down beside Elsie’s ashen head.

“Are you sure?” His voice was hushed, tinged with faint notes of shock.

“ _Yes,_ I am bloody sure, do you think I’m Flooing you for my _good health?”_ She bellowed.

Behind her, Winky flinched.

“Alright, alright, calm down. I mean—” Barty took one look at the furious expression on Elsie’s face and quickly backtracked. “No, that is not what I—I simply meant to say not to panic, Elizabeth. I…I shall have to make arrangements here and I will be there as soon as possible. Just wait.”

Elsie reached into the fire and took hold of his collar, pulling him forward until he was less than an inch from her disembodied head.

“I don’t know who you think you are telling to wait, Bartemius Crouch, but I _know_ it is not me. I don’t care if the Minister herself has to take your place, you find a way to get here! I am not having this baby by myself!”

As if to stress the seriousness of her condition, another contraction came bearing down on her. She squeezed her legs together and whimpered, digging her fingernails into her palm. Barty blanched.

“I’m sending Hopkirk over—she’ll take you to St. Mungo’s. Selwyn’s trial…it’s unavoidable, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.” His hands were shaking slightly. “I’ll be there Elizabeth.”

* * *

A few moments later, Mafalda Hopkirk arrived at the house. Although trying for Elsie’s sake to keep her composure, Mafalda was in a right state by the time they arrived at the hospital. Fortunately, the Healers at St. Mungo’s were exceptionally calm. Speaking in low, comforting tones, they helped Elsie into a wheelchair and rolled her into a temporary room down the hall.

After she had verified her identity and filled out the necessary paperwork, Mafalda was allowed in to see her friend. Poor Elsie’s face was flushed and her hair was slick with sweat, despite the Cooling Charm they had cast on her. Her hands looked almost deformed, gripping the side of the bed so hard that her knuckles were white.

“I can’t do this, Mafalda.” Elsie moaned the moment she saw her.

“Of course you can.” Mafalda grasped her hand, looking disproportionately fierce for a witch so tiny.

“What if something goes wrong?”

A Healer with a name tag that read “Neva Mowery” was bustling in and out of the room, bottles and potion ingredients levitating behind her.

“Not to worry, love! Women have babies every day!” She called over her shoulder to Elsie, who was now squeezing Mafalda’s hand so tightly that it was beginning to lose circulation.

“Where’s Bartemius?” She gasped.

“I spoke to Alastor a few minutes ago. Something's happened at the trial and he got held up. When he’s finished they’ll send him straight here—” Mafalda was interrupted by a particularly brutal contraction. She knew that it must have been painful because Elsie nearly squeezed her hand off.

“What if something awful’s happened to him?” Elsie started to cry. “He could be lying dead in the street or Imperiused or—”

_"Elizabeth.”_

Barty stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. His hat was lopsided and his hair was disheveled—he looked as if he had run all the way from the Ministry to St. Mungo’s.

“Barty, thank god.” Elsie breathed, reaching for him.

“I came as quickly as I could, I’m sorry.”

“Where on earth have you been? I was so worried about you. I thought—” She froze and squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again she was even paler than before.

Barty turned to the Healer who was very calmly stirring a cauldronful of Blood Replenishing Potion.

“Can’t at least give her something for the pain?” Barty demanded, gesturing to the agonized, sweaty mess that was his wife.

“I would if I could, Mr. Crouch, but pain potion is quite harmful to babies. Can be toxic, even. Not long now, though.” she said reassuringly, looking as though she was not at all surprised by the panic etched into his face, “And she’ll be fine—do try not to worry.”

Entirely unconvinced, Barty turned to Elsie and placed the back of his hand on her forehead.

“Merlin, you’re burning up.”

“About time, isn’t it? I’ve been freezing for the past nine months—nearly gave you heatstroke, remember?” She managed a small smile that turned into a grimace halfway through.

“Dear Lord.”

“I’m fine.” She panted. “Women have babies every day, right?”

“That’s exactly right, love.” The Healer said, cupping her cheek in a motherly fashion. “Now, my dear, I need to know how you want to do this. Some women prefer to go about it naturally, but I do have a Dilation Draught here to speed things along, if you like.”

“Potion.” Barty and Elsie both said at once.

“Yes, I thought you might.” She smiled, uncorking the bottle and tipping it into Elsie’s mouth. “This’ll only take a minute or two, so be ready. I’ll show Ms. Hopkirk out and be back in a jiffy.”

Patting Barty gently on the shoulder, Healer Mowery motioned to Mafalda, who hugged Elsie and promised she’d be back to visit after the baby was born before following the Healer out of the room and closing the door behind them.

The room was silent. Else was focusing very hard on controlling her breathing and Barty was pacing the room restlessly. He said nothing, but every few moments he walked over to her bed, opened his mouth, closed it again, and returned to pacing.

It reminded Elsie of a gaping fish and, despite her discomfort, she couldn’t help but giggle. Nothing else fazed him—Unforgivable Curses, visits to Azkaban, horrible bloody reports that turned her stomach—but had always been quite useless when it came to her.

“What could possibly be so amusing?” He asked, baffled.

“You look like a fish in a bowler hat.”

Barty rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless. With a quick glance towards the door, he turned to Elsie and sucked his cheeks in, making fish lips at her. She burst out laughing, her pain momentarily forgotten.

Healer Mowery chose this moment to walk back in, carrying a freshly brewed batch of Murtlap Essence. Barty went Remembrall-red and cleared his throat, looking mortified. Healer Mowery said nothing, but raised her eyebrows at Elsie who was now trying unsuccessfully to suppress a hysterical fit of laughter.

Barty frowned.

_“Sorry.”_ She mouthed, still giggling.

“Let’s see how you’re coming along, shall we?” The Healer turned to Elsie and spoke an incantation that neither of them had heard before. What looked like an opaque blanket emerged from the tip of her wand and spread itself across Elsie’s stomach. As soon as it touched her skin, it began to evaporate. Healer Mowery clasped her hands together and smiled. “You’re fully dilated! Are you ready?”

“I…I don’t know.” Elsie took a shaky breath and looked up at Barty, who nodded resolutely.

The Healer took her hand.

“Trust your body, my dear. It knows what to do. Now let’s have us a baby, Mrs. Crouch.”

* * *

Throughout the course of his career in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Bartemius Crouch had seen all manner of frightening and disturbing things—blood and gore, violent criminals, unimaginable dark curses that left victims scarred and disfigured—but it seemed in this moment that none of them quite compared to the absolute insanity that was childbirth.

He hated feeling so incompetent. The only help he was able to offer Elizabeth was his hand, which she held with a viselike grip as she pushed. (Afterwards, he’d covertly checked to make sure it was still attached to his body.)

Elsie was on the verge of tears as the Healer stood at the foot of the bed, coaching her through another contraction.

“I can see his head, darling, you’re doing beautifully! One more big push and we’ll have him!”

Her legs trembled as she bore down, biting her own hand to keep from screaming.

“Nearly there, love, nearly there!”

_Her face was bright red, there were spots bursting behind her eyes, she couldn’t possibly do this for one more second—_

“And there he is!” Healer Mowery beamed, holding up a rather slimy-looking newborn. With a nimble swish of her wand, she cut the cord and cast a quick _Tergeo_ to clean him off, laying him upon Elsie’s heaving chest.

Elsie looked down at her son in awe, carefully tracing his cheek with one finger. _He was perfect._ So enraptured was she by this precious creature that she didn't even notice Healer Mowery moving towards them. When she reached for the baby, Elsie recoiled, wrapping her arms around him protectively.

“I just need to take him for a few quick tests, and then he’s right back.”

“Can’t I come with him?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear, but I promise I’ll be done in a jiffy. Besides,” she winked, “this is the only rest you’ll be getting for the next few years.”

Elsie nodded reluctantly and allowed the Healer to take her son, somehow managing not to rip him out of the woman’s arms when he cried and reached back for her.

With the two of them gone, the room was suddenly very quiet. The crushing weight of her exhaustion swept over her and she sank down onto the pillows.

Bartemius pressed his lips to her forehead, letting them linger there for a moment.

“I am very proud of you, Elizabeth.” He said.

She smiled tiredly at him and brushed her fingers lightly across his cheek.

“Did I do alright?”

“Oh yes.” Barty smiled fondly. “He looks just like you.”

“So a complete mess, then.”

“No.” He shook his head and tucked a damp tendril of hair behind her ear. “You have never looked more beautiful.”

“Stop that.” She swatted his hand and laughed. “It’s not nice to lie.”

* * *

When Healer Mowery returned with their son, he was swaddled in a blue blanket and sleeping peacefully in her arms. Her eyes were full of mirth as she handed him to Elsie and said, “You’ve got a difficult one, mum. He’ll be a right handful, you mark my words.”

Barty raised his eyebrow skeptically.

“He's asleep—how could you possibly know that?”

“I’ve been delivering babes for 34 years.” She said and patted him on the arm. “I can always tell.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that for a moment, do you?” Elsie murmured to the little bundle. “You’re perfectly lovely, don’t you listen.”

“Congratulations, Mum and Dad.” The Healer smiled. “Now you two just enjoy your little one for a bit—I’ll go and arrange the discharge paperwork.” And she disappeared once more, leaving three people where there had been only two.

Alone in the hospital room with their son, Barty and Elsie both sighed audibly. His of relief and finality; hers of breathless wonder at the perfect new life cradled in her arms.

Bartemius Crouch Jr. was beautiful. He had a few wispy locks of blonde hair, so light that he might have had no hair at all, and his eyes were a clear, celery green—Bartemius could clearly see Elizabeth in the boy’s face.

Elsie could have stared at him forever—over and over again she counted his ten little fingers and toes, struck by how pure and innocent he was—how she could love something so unbelievably much. She was overwhelmed with affection so intense that it actually hurt.

His life flashed before her eyes: _Barty as a 2-year old, tottering around with a toy broomstick and smiling; Barty as an 11-year old, off to Hogwarts; Barty as a 17-year old, tall and handsome like his father, coming home for Christmas and practicing Quidditch in the yard; Barty graduating, Barty at his wedding, Barty having a family of his own…_

She could see it all in an instant. His entire life laid out before her.

All the books she’d read said that babies couldn't smile until they were at least two months old, but Elsie could have sworn that he did, just for a second. He puckered his lips and reached for her and she was overcome with affection.

“I love you so much.” She whispered. “My little fish.”

Barty took his hat off and tapped it with his wand.

_“Reducio.”_

Placing it on their son’s head, he smiled.

“A fish in a bowler hat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends!! So this chapter was a *whirlwind!* A major flaw in the whole “posting on the 7th and 27th of each month” thing is that there are 20 days in between the 7th and 27th, and only 10 days in between the 27th and 7th. Needless to say, I’ve been typing like a madwoman—this chapter was a doozie. I wrote most of it in between classes and on my lunch breaks and planning periods at school, but it finally came together! 
> 
> Anyway, that being said, I hope it lived up to your expectations! I’ve never had a baby, so I had absolutely no idea how to write a birth scene. I did ask my mother but, seeing as I was a c-section, that wasn’t much help. (What I’m really trying to say is: if you’ve had child and this is painfully inaccurate, please don’t be mad, lol.)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for sticking with me so far! To everyone who has read and reviewed, a million gratitudes! You have now officially been adopted into my friends club.
> 
> ANYWAY, thank you so much for reading! Chapter 14 will be up on the 27th! 
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFeet xX


	14. The Carousel

It was December 20th and Elsie was helping Dolores Umbridge decorate her office for Christmas—they were currently hanging pink ornaments on a pink Christmas tree that was covered in pink tinsel, giving the room the distinct appearance that a Pygmy Puff had thrown up all over it.

Ordinarily, this was the time of year Elsie loved more than any other—the snow, the lights, the carols—but this year, the Christmas season only served to dampen her spirits. The snow was cold and wet, the lights didn’t twinkle quite as brightly, and she found herself on the verge of tears every time she heard God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs.

This was all rather out of character for her, but to find the reason for her sudden and unexpected Scrooge-like behavior, one had to look no further than her wayward son, Bartemius Crouch Jr. He had sent her an owl a few days ago, informing her that he would not be coming home for the holidays this year; preferring, instead, to remain at Hogwarts with his friends.

It seemed silly, but Elsie was heartbroken over this news. She had been so looking forward to spending time with him, and this would be the first Christmas that they wouldn’t all be together as a family. She’d written back, telling him that of course she understood, but they would miss him very much and to please let her know if he changed his mind. She never got a response.

Just like Elsie, Christmas used to be Barty’s favorite time of year as well. When he was little, the two of them would decorate the whole house: stringing baubles up, making paper snowflakes, hanging stockings. But his favorite thing of all was the Christmas tree. The day of Thanksgiving, Bartemius would drag the tree out of storage—grudgingly, because he apparently had a fundamental belief that Christmas trees should only be erected in December. (Conversely, Barty seemed to feel that the entire month of December was Christmas and would beg Elsie every single day to open a present, to the point that she finally threatened to chuck them all in the fire if he kept asking her.)

Their tree tradition began the year that Barty was three. Bartemius had received a memo that he was needed urgently at the Ministry and had to rush in to work, despite being off for the Thanksgiving holiday. He stayed just long enough to finish supper before distractedly ruffling his son’s hair and giving Elsie’s hand a quick squeeze.

Barty wasted no time in having a complete meltdown. His face turned a stunning red and he began wailing into his green beans and screaming for _“Daddy home!”_

Casting around desperately for a way to distract him, Elsie’s eyes lit on a magazine that was lying on the coffee table, emblazoned with a picture of a Christmas tree. She whispered her plan to Winky who quickly snapped her fingers, summoning two gigantic plastic tubs of ornaments floating down the stairs.

“Look, darling, I have a surprise for you!” Elsie lifted Barty out of his high chair and set him on the floor, where he took a wobbly step towards her. Kneeling down beside him, she looked into his big, teary eyes. “Would you like to help Mummy decorate the Christmas tree?”

“Mm-hmm.” His bottom lip was still quivering but he nodded.

She kissed the tip of his nose and wrapped him in a warm, comforting hug.

“You’ll have to catch me, then.” She grinned, wiggling her eyebrows at him. Barty giggled and chased her into the sitting room, all previous hysterics forgotten.

With a wave of her wand, Elsie switched the radio on and the two of them began singing along to Christmas music as they lifted the lid on the first ornament box. At this point, Barty got himself so excited that he began running in circles around the tree, singing Jingle Bells as fast as he could. Elsie and Winky were both got tickled by this, and laughed until there were tears in their eyes.

_A sharp jab to her ribs snapped her back to reality and Elsie realized that she had been staring at a fuchsia, bow-shaped ornament for more than a minute now._

Dolores looked at her expectantly.

“Sorry, what?” Elsie blinked at her friend.

“I asked if you’d heard from Barty recently?”

Her question was hesitant, as though she already knew what the answer might be.

“Which one?” Elsie asked tartly.

“Well, I was referring to Junior, but either, I suppose.” Dolores answered mildly.

_“Neither.”_ Elsie gave the floor an unhappy glance. “Barty’s got his N.E.W.T.s coming up, and Barty…well, he hasn’t been home since Tuesday. I swear, he spends more time _getting_ home than he actually _is_ at home.”

“Abigail says the same thing. She was up here yesterday in Cornelius’ office. _Screaming.”_

Elsie examined a garish pink dachshund ornament.

“That doesn’t sound like her.” 

Dolores raised an eyebrow.

“Well. I mean, not in front of everyone.”

“He hadn’t been home in four days—he missed their anniversary.” Umbridge added in a conspiratorial whisper.

“She told you that?” Elsie asked, surprised. Ever since the nasty incident in which Rita had written that awful Prophet article about Bartemius, she and Abigail both had been playing things a bit closer to the chest.

“She told _everyone_ that—she was shouting!”

“Oh dear.” Elsie covered her mouth and giggled despite completely empathizing with Abigail’s feelings. “Can’t say I blame her, though. I might be doing the same if Barty doesn’t come home again tonight.”

“Well then, I might be seeing you again this evening. It’s been so busy around here—seven trials in the past week, and Bartemius has headed up all of them.”

“I think you and Cornelius have been seeing more of my husband than _I_ have.” Elsie said dryly.

“I _am_ sorry, dear.” Dolores patted her hand. “If it makes you feel better, I know he’d rather be at home with you.”

“Yes, well, he’d just be working if he was.” She rolled her eyes.

Dolores seemed unsure whether to laugh or be concerned.

“Elizabeth…are you and Bartemius…are the two of you alright?”

Elsie sighed.

“We are, I suppose. I miss him, and it drives me mad that he’s never home, but we’re managing.”

“And he and Barty—are things any better?”

“Oh, Merlin. Honestly, Dolores, I really don’t know what to do about them. When he was little, you know, he _worshipped_ Bartemius—wanted to be just like him. Then he went off to Hogwarts and realized that not everyone’s fathers worked all the time and he’s…he’s always felt a bit cheated, I think.”

“Oh dear.”

“Bartemius _has_ been making more of an effort with him—took him to the theatre over the summer and tries to talk Quidditch with him. But I’m just afraid it’s too late. After all, he’s older now—has all his friends…he doesn’t need us anymore.” She smiled sadly. “Two ships that passed in the night, they are.”

Dolores hummed sympathetically.

“But surely there’s time for them to mend things?”

“I’m not sure there is.” Elsie said quietly. “They’ve always had trouble getting on, but lately it feels different. Barty seems so angry all the time and Bartemius is just…giving up on him.”

“Oh, that can’t be true. He talks about him all the time, you know—about how well he’s doing in school and how hard he’s working.”

Elsie shook her head.

“They just…I can’t explain it, I sound crazy. Maybe I am. But there’s just this… _hostility_ in him that I’ve never seen before.”

“In Bartemius?” Dolores arched her eyebrows.

“No, in Barty.” A tiny shiver passed through her. “This last year, something’s changed. He seems…cold. Hard. _Hateful,_ almost. It scares me.”

Dolores looked at Elsie for a moment before patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. 

“Well, I don’t have any children, of course, but I’m sure this kind of thing is perfectly normal. Standard development, I would think, don’t you?”

“Standard.” Elsie echoed. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

* * *

Perhaps Dolores had mentioned that it would be in his best interest not to stay overnight again, or perhaps he had simply run out of clean suits, but the very same day Elsie and Dolores had their conversation, Barty was home abnormally early. He found Elsie sitting on the floor, surrounded by boxes of unopened Christmas decorations. She was wearing an oversized green jumper and flipping through a dusty photo album, mouth set in a deep frown and eyebrows knitted together over infinitely sad eyes.

“Is everything alright?” He asked, bending down absentmindedly to kiss her on the forehead.

“It’s Barty.” She sighed. “He isn’t coming home for the holidays. He...wants to stay at Hogwarts.”

“Ah, yes.” Bartemius picked up a copy of The Daily Prophet from the table and began to flip through it. “I well remember the years the two of us spent Christmases at Hogwarts.”

Elsie didn’t say anything and when Barty looked up from The Prophet he was dismayed to see her crying.

“Elizabeth—” He looked perturbed. “What on earth is the matter?”

“It’s just...he never gets to see you, and I thought...with the holidays, the two of you could spend some time together. I’m worried about him.”

“The boy is fine, Elizabeth, I see no cause for concern. He has friends, he’s earning excellent marks—”

“No, you’re not listening to me, Bartemius, something’s wrong!” Her voice was high-pitched; nearing panic.

“Alright, alright, don’t cry.” He pulled her to him and she lay her head on his shoulder. “If it would put you at ease, we can go and visit him at the castle—perhaps after the new year.”

“Yes, I—I’d like that.” She took a shaky breath. Barty smiled down at her.

“I promise you, there is nothing to worry about. But if there _is_ , we will find out when we go to see him and we shall fix it.”

Elsie gave him a long, appraising look before finally smiling.

“You’re quite good you know. You should be one of those—what are they called? The Muggles who have you sit on the sofa and talk about your feelings?”

“Therapist.”

“Yes, that!” She laughed. “You should be a therapist.”

Barty rested his chin atop her head.

“And how does that make you feel?” He deadpanned, causing her to snort.

“Tell Millie the Ministry needs to add that department.” She giggled.

“Department of Magical Therapy?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I’m sure it’d get lots of use—you lot are all crazy.”

“In many cases I’m afraid that is unfortunately true.” He said drily. “But enough of all this. You do realize that I am officially home for the holidays—an entire week of uninterrupted, work-free time? Surely there is something you would rather do besides sit on the floor and cry.”

“Yes, well, actually there _is_ a new episode of my show on tonight—we could sit on the _couch_ and cry.”

Shaking his head in amusement, he took her cold hand in his and helped her up. Levitating a blanket over to them, Bartemius settled beside her on the couch and all thoughts of the television were forgotten as she tilted her head up and kissed him sweetly.

* * *

As it turned out, Barty Jr. _did_ come home for the holidays. He arrived on their doorstep on Christmas Eve, at 11:30 in the evening.

Elsie was asleep on the couch when the doorbell rang, and Bartemius (who could get away with working while she was sleeping) was nursing a headache and a difficult case file. At the sound of the doorbell, he came flying out of his study, wand drawn and motioning for Elsie to stand back.

This was typical behavior as of late. They’d all heard the terrible stories—families murdered in their sitting rooms; Death Eaters showing up in the middle of the night to kidnap them—thankfully, their protective enchantments seemed to be holding, but Bartemius’ guard was constantly up and the doorbell scared Elsie every time.

He opened the door slowly, the wary look on his face turning to one of pleasant shock.

“Are you gonna hex me or just make me stand outside freezing my bollocks off?”

The door swung open to reveal a sandy-haired, freckled 17-year old, wrapped in a Ravenclaw scarf and carrying a rucksack.

“Barty!” Elsie squealed, pulling him into a hug and kissing his cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart, we didn’t think you were coming!”

He shrugged apathetically.

“None of the other 7th-years wanted to stay on. Didn’t figure there was much use spending the holiday with a bunch of firsties.”

“Good to see you, son. Your trip was alright?” Bartemius asked stiffly, as though this were a Ministry colleague and not his child. Barty nodded and awkwardly shook the hand his father had offered.

“S’pose.” He muttered.

Elsie was nearly beside herself with excitement.

“Come in, love, I’ll fix you some turkey—your father hasn’t eaten either, I don’t think—and I’ll go and get Winky, she’ll be thrilled to see you!”

“Mum, mum, please.” He brushed her off and dropped his scarf onto the table. “Look, it’s late, alright? I’m tired. I’m not hungry and I can say hello to Winky in the morning.”

“Oh...yes, of course, darling, whatever you like. But your room isn’t ready, there aren’t any sheets on your bed. Why don’t you sit down with your father for a moment while I sort it.” She motioned to the couch.

It was difficult to tell who looked more alarmed at this suggestion, Barty or Bartemius.

“No thanks,” Barty said, already making his way towards the bedroom, “I can sort it myself.”

Bartemius looked for a moment as though he wanted to say something, but settled for a curt nod and “goodnight.”

“Night, Mother. Father.”

“Sleep well, sweetheart.” Elsie smiled fondly at him. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

* * *

Since Barty had turned fourteen, it was nearly impossible to get him up before ten o’clock on Christmas morning (or any morning, for that matter, and if you succeeded, he would be remarkably grumpy.)

Historically; however, Christmas morning in the Crouch household had always been a rather exciting time, especially for young Barty. Elsie and Bartemius could never manage to get him to bed at any kind of reasonable hour on Christmas Eve, and it was really quite pointless anyway, seeing as he was inevitably going to be up before dawn, bouncing on their bed and trying to drag them downstairs to open presents.

Perhaps that’s why Barty had been always been so keen on Christmas—the presents. Or perhaps it was the snow or the decorations, or maybe even the sweets. But the truth, Elsie suspected, was that her son loved Christmas so dearly because it was the one time of year that he had his father’s full attention. She had put her foot down years ago—from the time they were married—that this was a sacred time and should be spent with family. He had agreed and never once missed a Christmas. (Although Elsie did sometimes catch him sneaking into his study to try and work.)

One of Elsie’s fondest holiday memories was in 1967, when Barty was five. Traditionally, they were the ones making the trip south to Dover to see Bartemius’ mother and father, and then up to Fionnphort to visit the Bagmans. Barty loved this tradition—he called it “Christmas around the world.” This particular year, however, Ludo was going to be in town for a Quidditch match and Barty was still getting over a bout of the Mumblemumps and, thus, it was decided that Christmas would be held at their house.

Despite Bartemius’ success at the Ministry, the Crouch home was surprisingly modest. He insisted that they had no need of “some extravagant, gaudy mansion when this is perfectly sufficient for the three of us and Winky.” True though this was, it did present quite the challenge when it came to Christmas logistics, and Elsie very nearly had a festive holiday breakdown trying to work out how to cram their respective families into a three-bedroom house.

The final arrangement consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Crouch in the downstairs guest bedroom, Ludo and Mr. Bagman in Barty Jr.’s room, Elsie and her mother in the master bedroom, and Bartemius and Barty on the couch.

For all of the trouble and aggravation, Elsie would never forget coming downstairs on Christmas morning and seeing the two of them snuggled up together; Bartemius snoring under a thick woolen blanket and Barty curled up on his chest, fast asleep with his little hand dangling from the side of the couch. She had taken a picture of them and tucked it away in a photo album with the caption _“my sweet boys.”_

Now, however; on this evening twelve years later, the atmosphere could not possibly be more different. There was no extended family—The Bagmans and Crouchs had been dead for years now, Ludo was off doing God-knows-what (he had recently gotten into a spot of trouble with gambling), and her husband and son seemed to be avoiding one another.

Bartemius and Barty sat on opposite sides of the tree in the sitting room; the former settled in a rigid, straight-backed chair and the latter slouching on the hearth. Elsie sat on the Persian rug with her back against Bartemius’ legs, waiting for one of them to break the silence and wondering how it could be so cold in a room with a roaring fire.

Finally, she’d had enough. It was Christmas Day. Surely— _surely,_ Elsie thought, all family conflict could be set aside on Christmas Day. Clearly, if anything was to get done, she would have to be the one to do it.

“Well then, shall we get started?” She clasped her hands together forcefully and both Bartys nodded their assent as she donned a silver, sequined Santa hat and began passing out gifts.

When all of the packages had been distributed (three neat little piles, plus a tiny stack for Winky,) they all stared silently at them, unsure where to begin.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Elsie said exasperatedly, “I’ll start.”

Barty had gifted her a book of “Do-It-Yourself Housekeeping Charms” and a pair of enchanted knitting needles. She pressed a kiss to his cheek and he pulled away, saying “Honestly, Mum, relax, it’s just Christmas.”

Bartemius had gotten her a gold ring with all three of their names engraved on it. He explained that he had the matching band and, if either of them touched their ring, the pair would heat up and glow and they would know that the other was thinking of them. (“For evenings when I have to work late—I know you worry.”) Elsie brought a hand to her mouth and gasped softly, slipping it on immediately and admiring it in the firelight. Unable to find the words to express her sentiments, she grasped Bartemius’ hand speechlessly and motioned for him to open his own gifts.

From Barty, Bartemius received a pair of mustache-patterned socks and a mug that said “Ministry of Tragic.” (If he found either of these offensive, he didn’t say, merely laying them aside with a small smile.)

Elsie had gotten him tickets to the Fountain of Fair Fortune opera and a handmade scrapbook of pictures and awards from his tenure at the Ministry. Lastly, she handed him a small vial of Felix Felicis with a tag that read _“Lucky you”._

Leaning down, he kissed her warmly, smiling as she melted against him.

“Gross.” Barty muttered.

“Don’t be immature,” snapped Bartemius.

He rolled his eyes but said nothing.

“Alright, you next, love.” Elsie pushed a long, thin, brightly wrapped blue bundle towards Barty. “I hope you like it, I wasn’t quite sure what to get you this year…” She trailed off, looking nervous, but it would seem that she had no reason to be.

“Blimey!” He yelped. “Mum, you _didn’t!_ ” Barty’s eyes lit up as a broomstick tumbled out of the wrapping and Elsie was reminded intensely of her little three-year-old who had danced around the Christmas tree.

“Is it alright?” She asked. “Ludo pulled some strings to get it for you. He said it’s one of the best—”

But what the broomstick was, she never got to say because Barty had launched himself at his mother and was hugging her tightly.

_“Thank you,_ Mum.”

“Of course.” She waved her hand breezily but was secretly thrilled at his reaction. “And he also said not to wear anything Appleby Arrow-coloured when you ride it.”

Barty grinned.

“Tell him we’ll race the next time he’s down.”

“Go on now, open your father’s.” Elsie gestured towards a flat, neatly-wrapped package that was next to Barty’s foot.

“What’s this?” He asked, unable to keep from smiling. “Is this the new Nimbus manual?” He unwrapped the parcel and held up an indigo book with glossy white letters embossed upon the front.

_“Arm Yourself: A Historical Account of the Wizarding War and Practical Application to Keeping Oneself Informed.”_ Barty wasn’t quite successful in his attempt not to roll his eyes.

Undeterred by his son’s obvious lack of interest, Bartemius leaned forward eagerly.

“I think you’ll find it rather informative. And the author is a personal friend of mine—the inside cover is inscribed.”

“Sage Bragnam.” Barty snorted. “You can’t be serious.”

“And what, may I ask, is the matter with Sage Bragnam?”

“Well, for starters, how much the Ministry must have paid him to write this propaganda.”

“Propaganda?” Bartemius’ eyes bulged. “This is Ministry-approved, factual information.”

“Come on, Dad.” He met Bartemius’ eyes reproachfully. “It’s all one-sided, pro-Muggle nonsense. It’s totally stilted! There’s nothing even in here about Grindelwald or You-Know Who. At least give us all the facts and let people decide for themselves.”

“Decide _what,_ exactly?” Bartemius’ voice was rising.

Elsie tried to intervene with stockings but it seemed that neither of them noticed.

“What they want to believe!” Barty, too, was beginning to sound heated.

“Am I to understand that you _support_ these monstrous ideals?” Bartemius regarded his son with disbelief. “Ideals parroted by these foolish disciples of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…these _‘Death Eaters?’”_

“I’m just saying they’ve got the right idea, all right? I mean, think about it—Wizards and Muggles _shouldn’t_ mix. It dilutes the blood! That’s not anti-Muggle, it’s just a fact!”

“A ‘fact,’” thundered Bartemius “that is touted by some of the most dangerous Dark Wizards our world has ever seen as a means to defend their actions! Wizards who, given the chance, would murder Muggleborns— _torture_ them, even!”

“Unlike what the Aurors are doing, then, yeah?” Barty challenged. “Using Unforgivables on people who _might_ be Death Eaters?”

“These are perilous times—people are being murdered in their homes and the Ministry has to act!”

“So the ends justify the means.” Barty’s lip curled into an ugly smile.

_“No,”_ Bartemius’ eyes blazed, “but certain exceptions must be made in the name of law and order. As the son of someone in Magical Law Enforcement, I would think you would know better.”

“Better than what?” Barty glowered at his father. “Better than just accepting whatever I’m told, like a good little boy? Better than blindly swallowing this biased drivel?”

_“That’s enough!”_ Bartemius thundered. “I will not tolerate this!”

“Right.” Barty said, his voice suddenly flat and emotionless. “I’m off to bed, then.”

“We are not finished discussing this—”

Night, mum.” He said, pointedly failing to acknowledge Bartemius.

“Barty, love, can’t we just—” Elsie reached for him but he pulled away, casting the book aside. Bartemius wasn’t far behind him, heading off in the opposite direction into his study, seething with wordless rage.

The only remaining member of the family was Winky, who flattened her ears as Elsie dropped her head into her hands and started to cry.

* * *

“You’re saying that I am to blame for this.”

Bartemius was shining his shoes as Elsie made her way around the bedroom, tidying up angrily.

“No,” she snatched a wrinkled pair of robes from the bed and flung them onto the floor. “I’m saying that the both of you are a pair of selfish idiots who can’t put aside your differences for one moment to think about anyone but yourselves! You’re _just_ alike!”

“Aside from the fact that our son is clearly a supporter of dark magic!” He brandished his hands animatedly and a drop of polish went flying. “You heard him down there! Saying Death Eaters have the ‘right idea.’ Such rubbish I’ve never heard…” He shook his head. “He was out of line.”

“You were cruel to him.”

“You _coddle_ him.” He shot back.

She whirled around to face him, her hair falling to one side. A patch of hives was visible on the side of her neck, red and raw.

“What is that?” He asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I’ve already been to see a Healer, don’t start. They told me it’s a ‘stress rash.’ Gave me a cream and told me to avoid taxing situations.”

“And that’s working well for you, I take it?” He asked caustically.

“Clearly not, is it?” She snapped. “And that’s not likely to change with you two at each other’s throats every hour of the day.”

“The boy doesn’t listen to me, Elizabeth—” He started, but she cut him off before he could finish.

“Of course he doesn’t listen—he’s _seventeen,_ Barty! And _you,”_ she pointed a finger at him “are one to talk about not listening. You prattled on for half an hour at dinner about Apparition regulations and didn’t once ask him about his Quidditch match. If you want him to listen to you, let alone respect you, you _have_ to do the same for him. He’s not a little boy anymore, Bartemius!”

“For heaven’s sake, Elizabeth, I know he isn’t.”

“Although I suppose you could be forgiven for thinking that he is, seeing as you’ve only spent about five minutes with him his entire life.”

He glared severely at her.

“Everything I have done has been for you and Barty _._ Have you ever, for a moment, stopped to consider that? This war is not some frivolous hobby— _lives_ are at stake and I am working day and night to try and ensure that our son _has_ a life.”

_“At what cost?”_ She asked.

“Good Lord.” Bartemius said bitterly. “No matter what I do, I seem to ruin everything, don’t I? Perhaps you and Barty would be better off alone.”

A stunned silence fell between them and he sighed inwardly, already regretting his choice of words.

“…You want to leave us?” Elsie said in a tiny voice.

“No—” he shook his head. “No, that is not what I want.”

“No?” She repeated coldly.

_“No.”_

“But you _could_ if you wanted to. Right?” Her green gaze was full of venomous hurt. “Because we depend on you. Because—”

“Elizabeth, stop it.” He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders.

_“Let go of me.”_ She hissed. “If you want to leave us then go on, no one’s stopping you.” She looked up at him and he could see past her anger and into her broken heart.

How had this happened? It wasn’t two days ago that they had lain on the couch together; Bartemius holding her in his arms and laughing about Muggle therapists and promising her that everything would be alright. And now here they were, once again—he defensive and stubborn and she furious and disappointed.

“Please, I don’t want to quarrel.” He said quietly, as though he’d read her mind. “Please, Elizabeth.”

“I’m _so_ tired, Bartemius.” She turned away. “How many times can we have the same fight over and over again? It’s like we’re on a carousel and it never, _never_ stops turning. I’m _tired.”_

“Elsie...” He reached for her and was disheartened to feel her stiffen.

“I think you should sleep downstairs tonight.” She said without looking at him.

* * *

The next morning, Bartemius awoke, uncomfortable and sore, on the sofa. He had not slept well and, somehow, felt even less rested than the night before. He noted with a sense of bitter irony the likeness to how he felt that Christmas morning twelve years ago, waking with Barty asleep on his chest.

He raised himself stiffly off the couch, wincing at the pain in his back and the memory of his fight with Elsie. It wasn’t until he had fluffed the cushions and refolded the blanket that he noticed Barty Jr. sitting at the breakfast table, eating a bowl of Pixie Puffs and reading a book entitled “Unforgivable Curses and Their Legal Implications.”

“Got Mother in a right state, then, did you?” He didn’t even look up from his book.

“Excuse me?”

“I heard your row last night. She sounded pretty… _shouty.”_ Barty emphasized the last word with relish.

“You shouldn’t have been listening.”

Barty shrugged.

“Pretty hard not to. She was screaming her head off. Winky had socks stuffed in her ears.” His tone was shockingly casual despite the nasty smile on his face.

“Never mind our…disagreement. It wasn’t your mother’s fault, it was mine.”

“As usual then.” Barty snorted.

“You needn’t remind me that I haven’t been a good husband to your mother, I am perfectly aware.”

Barty smirked and turned another page in his book.

“Small wonders.”

“Bartemius, please.” His father heaved an exhausted sigh.

 _“Don’t call me that.”_ Barty jerked his head up with sudden and shocking rage.

A muscle twitched in Bartemius’ jaw. His first instinct was to reprimand the boy, but he could hear Elizabeth’s voice in his head. _‘Just listen to him. Just give him a chance to express himself.’_

“What…would you prefer to be called?” He asked woodenly.

“My friends call me Barty. Like Mother. Like everyone but you.”

Bartemius managed a small smile.

“Do you know, when I was your age, I hated being called Barty. Your mother started all that business.” He chuckled at the memory.

“Bully for you.” Barty muttered.

Bartemius’ smile disappeared at once.

“Mind your attitude. I could have been at the office today, you know, but I chose to spend the holidays with you and your mother.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you to, did I?” Barty countered defiantly.

“No.” Bartemius said coldly. “I would not presume to imagine that you have any desire to spend time in my company. Your mother asked me to and I agreed.”

“Right proper job you’ve done of that, too, then—Mother’s been upstairs crying all morning. Why do you _think_ I don’t want you around? We’ve gotten along just fine without you for the last ten years.”

“I will not tolerate this insolence.” Bartemius thundered. “As long as you live under this roof, you will respect your mother and I. When you come of age, you are free to behave however you like.”

“I can’t bloody wait.”

_“Language.”_ His father snapped.

“Bugger off.” Barty said under his breath.

Throwing his hands into the air, Bartemius swept into his study, and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

When the sun finally set on what Elsie felt was one of the longest and most trying days of her life, she finally emerged from her bedroom and made her way down to the kitchen. She had been upstairs all day, under the pretense of cleaning—dusting every inch of the hallway, clearing out the bathroom cabinets and organizing the cupboards.

When she finally came downstairs, her eyes were red and swollen, and the mascara she had carefully applied had done nothing to conceal that she’d been crying. Bartemius had spent the day holed up in his study, fighting a sickening mixture of anger and guilt. Barty had been in and out of the house, wandering around the garden and the wooded path behind the gate.

Wordlessly (for she wouldn’t have even known where to begin), Elsie sat down beside Barty Jr. at the dining table and began knitting while he polished his broom. The silence between them, usually comfortable, felt tense.

“I spoke to Father.” He said finally.

“And?” Elsie flicked her eyes up to meet his. His expression was unreadable.

“I told him he was a prat for making you cry. I heard you two last night, having a row.”

Elsie’s heart sank.

“I appreciate your coming to my defense,” she said quietly, “but this isn’t about me. I can handle myself with your father, but you…I just want things to be good again—peaceful—like they were when you were a boy.”

“Things weren’t peaceful. That was just before I realized what a disappointment he was.”

Elsie laid her knitting aside and reached across the table.

“Please, Barty, just—”

He snatched his hand away.

“You told me to give him a chance and I did. It’s never going to change with us. I’m sick of it,” he said flatly, “and I’m done.”

“Oh, darling, I know it’s been hard.” She sighed. Her face looked so much older than he remembered. “He _is_ trying, you know. Try to be patient with him.”

“Patient?” He snorted. “I think we’re long past that, Mother. He’s a pompous, arrogant, single-minded arse—why did he even have a son if he didn’t want one?”

A harsh intake of breath told Barty that his words had achieved their desired effect.

“He _does_ want you!” She said forcefully. “Of _course_ he does, why would you even say that?”

“All he does is criticize me! Just because I won’t get five thousand N.E.W.Ts and go into the bloody Ministry like he did—“

“Language.”

“Why are you defending him?” Barty demanded angrily. “He’s been awful to you—you should’ve left him ages ago. Let him marry his stupid Department.”

_“Barty!”_

“Why can’t you see what’s right in front of you?”

“You’re—you’re asking me to choose between the two people I love more than anything. I...I can’t.” She looked wretched.

“You mean you won’t.” He smiled unpleasantly. “He’s ruined you, do you realize that?”

“That’s enough.” Elsie said firmly, shaking her head. “No, I’m sorry. You won’t speak of him that way. Your father loves you, whether you believe it or not.”

“Not.”

“I won’t hear it, Barty! Do you understand me? I know things have been difficult between the two of you, but he is still your father and my husband and you will not speak of him this way, not in my house!”

“He’s a bloody narcissist and you know it!” Barty slammed his hand on the table. “Admit it!” His voice was razor sharp.

“I will do no such thing.” Elsie admonished. “Your father has always taken care of us. _Always._ Things could be a lot worse.”

“Yeah,” he said sarcastically. “Think on the bright side. After all, Winky says he’s been coming home early the past few weeks. ‘Course, he’s bringing work with him, but that’s even better—now he can fuck you and write a report at the same time.”

Before she knew what she was doing, Elsie slapped him.

His bravado evaporated, leaving only a wide-eyed boy staring back at her, shock and a red welt both blooming across his face.

“I’m so sorry.” She breathed, covering her mouth. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I—I…”

The silence curdled bitterly.

“So you _have_ chosen a side.”

“Barty—”

“Save it, Mother.” He snatched his cloak from the chair and pocketed his wand. “I’m through.”

He crossed the sitting room in several quick strides, Elsie scrambling after him.

“Barty, wait!”

The door slammed loudly; the windows rattled. Yanking it open again, Elsie hurtled out into the dark, stumbling over a flowerpot and falling onto the uneven stone walkway. The sharp rocks dug into her knees and scarlet droplets began to well up through the shredded skin. Before she could get to her feet, she heard the abrupt crack of her son Disapparating.

_“BARTY!”_ She screamed, clutching her torn skirt in her hands.

The porch light flickered on and Bartemius appeared on the veranda, glasses teetering precariously on the edge of his nose and wand at the ready.

“Elizabeth? Are you alright?” He was beside her in an instant, helping her up and craning his neck around in search of The Dark Mark—everyone’s fear these days.

Wordlessly, Elsie shook her head and pointed into the blackness.

“He’s gone,” She whispered. It was as if saying the words out loud had broken a curse and the realization washed over her. She sank to the ground and covered her mouth.

“You need to come inside, Elizabeth. It’s too cold.” He gathered her into his arms but she pushed him away, stumbling slightly as if she were intoxicated.

“No, stop…I—I have to go and find him…I can’t—”

“You’re in shock, try to breathe normally. It will be alright.”

But she couldn’t, it seemed. She was gasping; clawing at her chest as though trying to rip her own heart out.

“It—won’t...he’s—gone…I—I can’t—breathe—”

“He has always been overzealous, since he was a child. No doubt he just needs time to calm himself. He’ll come back.”

“He won’t.” Elsie swallowed painfully. “Not after the things he said.”

“Well, he—we cannot force the boy to stay…if he has decided that he would rather return to Hogwarts…perhaps it is best to leave him be.”

The crisp night air was heavy around them; a lone streetlight cast a dim yellow glow on the dewy grass.

“This is all your fault.” Her voice was quiet, a ghost of a whisper. “You did this to us.”

“Elizabeth…”

“YOU DID THIS TO US!” She wailed suddenly. “How could you let this happen? You drove him away, he’s gone because of _you,_ it’s _YOUR FAULT!”_ She screamed, pounding on his chest.

He let her rage at him until she was worn out, limp and exhausted in his arms. Her anger ran deep—to her very core—yet still she clung to him as though he were a lifeline.

“Oh _God,_ Barty.” Her voice was ragged. “I can’t take this.”

“I know.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Oh, Elsie, I know.” Holding his broken wife in his arms—hating his son and himself—he placed a hand on his ring and shivered despite the glowing warmth. “The carousel never stops turning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, another bummer! I tried to inject a *little* fluff in there, from happier Christmases, but wowza. 
> 
> It was so weird writing this chapter because it’s like, I empathize with all of them. Of course, I 100% empathize with Elsie—she just wants things to be good—but I can also understand Barty’s feelings of neglect and rebellion. BUT, I also get Bartemius’ expectations and this whole thing of “he’s finally trying to make an effort but it’s too little too late and he also has no idea how to connect with a teenage son.” Oof, it’s miscommunication central.
> 
> Anyway, whew! I can’t believe this is chapter 14! (And, listen: if I thought writing Elsie/Mafalda/Dolores/Rita dialogue was difficult, then writing Barty/Barty dialogue was a nightmare, lol. I tried my best to differentiate between the two of them, but let me know if this was confusing!
> 
> Anyway anyway (I am the queen of anyways), this was another long one, but thank you so much for reading! This isn’t the most popular pairing, but just know that I appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read. <3 You guys are the bomb diggity! 
> 
> I’ll see you all on November 7th for Chapter 15!  
> Hugs!  
> Xx LimeGreenSockFeet xX


	15. Son of Mine

It was nearing midnight in a small house in the English countryside, and a thin, wispy woman was clutching an advance copy of the Daily Prophet, her face a mask of shock and confusion. Her husband stood behind her, watching as she read the front-page article that he had now committed to memory.

* * *

_Death Eaters Strike Again: Terror at Home of Beloved Aurors _

_In the early hours of Thursday evening, an appalling and tragic crime took place at the home of esteemed Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom. Augusta Longbottom alerted the authorities at ten o’clock, concerned that her son and daughter-in-law had not arrived at her house to pick up their one-year-old son Neville, whom she had been babysitting. When Ministry officials arrived, the Dark Mark had been cast over the house and the Longbottoms were unconscious, showing signs of severe trauma._

_In a shocking turn of events, one of the perpetrators in question is none other than Bartemius Crouch Jr., the son of the Ministry’s very own head of Magical Law Enforcement. Crouch stands accused of consorting with the three other perpetrators, confirmed Death Eaters Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan Lestrange. The persons believed responsible are being held for questioning, pending further investigation about their involvement in this grisly crime._

_While the specific details have not been released to the public, the Daily Prophet can report that Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom have been admitted to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, but Healers have not responded to request for comment regarding the nature of their injuries. Unconfirmed speculation suggests that the couple were victims of the prolonged use of the Cruciatus Curse, which has been known to cause permanent neurological damage when inflicted repeatedly. Further updates on this case will be published as we receive them._

* * *

Bartemius anxiously searched Elsie’s face for signs of understanding or acceptance, but the only emotion he found there was doubt. She hadn’t believed him, preferring instead to succumb to the starry comforts of denial.

“Rita did this?” She held up the paper, looking outraged. “I can’t believe she would do this _again,_ after everything she printed about you last year!”

“It wasn’t Rita.” Bartemius’ said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“It wasn’t Rita.”

“Wh—Barty, what is this?” She laughed shakily. “Surely the Prophet can't be this desperate for news? I…is this some kind of joke or a…misprint?”

Bartemius understood her unwillingness to accept this. He had experienced the same feelings not twelve hours ago before he learned the truth.

“No.” He shook his head gravely. “I’m afraid it’s true. We received word of it early this morning.”

Elsie narrowed her eyes at him.

“That’s not funny.”

“It's not a joke, Elsie. He was apprehended early this morning and is in custody at the Ministry. He will be held while they question him and attempt to determine the verity of certain alibis and defense witnesses. There will be a trial, of course, but Elizabeth...the boy is guilty.”

“Stop it.” She commanded, glaring sharply at him. “Stop saying that. Tell me the truth right now, Bartemius Crouch!”

_“I am.”_ He said heavily. “I questioned him myself and he admitted it. He was… _proud_ of it.” Profound grief was etched into his face as he again whispered, “Our son is guilty.”

“No,” Elsie said firmly. “No, you’re wrong—they’re wrong. This is a mistake. Perhaps one of his friends, or—a mix-up, that’s what this is. Listen to me, Barty, you have to go and get him, go and bring him home, he must be so scared. Barty— _why aren’t you listening to me?”_ Her hands were knotted in his shirt. _Didn't he understand how urgent this situation was?_

“Elizabeth…” Up close, she could see the dull horror in his eyes; could see the exhaustion carved into his lined face. “I questioned him myself.”

* * *

_He had._

When word of his son’s capture reached him, he—like Elizabeth—had assumed that it must have been a mistake and was in Alastor Moody’s office two minutes later, demanding to see the case file. The reports were ghastly in their own right, but more horrible still were the crime scene photos. Frank and Alice, limp upon the floor, drenched in blood and staring blank and openmouthed at the wall.

Bartemius had seen many things in his career, but this case was the most appalling by far. The sheer caliber of evil enacted upon this family—a family that he himself respected enormously…surely, he thought, this could not have been Barty.

The incriminating parchment had fallen from his hands and he immediately demanded to see his son. Moody, of course, tried to prevent him, but Kingsley Shacklebolt interceded, arguing that it was a father's right to see his son. He gave Bartemius a sympathetic nod before handing him an age-spotted golden key and a slip of paper with a cell number written on it. Mind racing with a million possible scenarios that could explain this insanity, Barty made his way downstairs to the lowest level of the Ministry—a dark, dank set of holding cells reserved for those awaiting trial. His hands were shaking as he opened the door.

The room was small and bleak, with nothing on the bare walls but cool, onyx tile and a single candle hovering in midair. In the middle of the floor was an iron chair, reinforced with a strengthening charm. Chained to the chair was a boy of eighteen, manacled and shivering. And looking down at the boy was Bartemius, in a crisp black suit and shined shoes. His face was pale; ashen with shock.

When their eyes met, Bartemius felt a chill run down his spine. _His son could not have done this._

“Listen to me, Barty.” His father said urgently. “I need to know everything— _everything_ —that happened on the day in question. I cannot look like I am being partial to you, which is why we must iron this out now. Where you went, who you spoke to, anyone who can confirm your alibi—all of this must be accounted for. Every detail, no matter how insignificant you may feel it is, is important.”

Barty said nothing, so Bartemius continued.

“Now, the Ministry has a witness—a woman that claims to have seen you on the Longbottoms’ street the day of the attack. If we are able to prove that you weren’t there, we should have no trouble discrediting—”

“I was there,” Barty said quietly.

“I—I see.” Bartemius faltered for a moment before recovering. “This is—a minor setback, but as long as we can verify the reason you were there…what was the reason?”

A sudden and extremely disconcerting grin broke across Barty’s face.

_“To avenge my Master.”_ He waggled his tongue.

Time stopped suddenly and Bartemius’ blood ran cold.

“What are you…no—this…this cannot be. What are you saying?”

“Don’t worry, Father. I’ll deny it. But I figured you should know the truth before you go tromping around trying to confirm my… _alibi.”_ The boy smirked.

“You...you…” It was boiling hot in this room; was he having a heart attack? 

_“You, you…”_ Barty mimicked. “Cat got your tongue?”

Bartemius had stopped breathing, he was sure of it.

“You will rot in Azkaban.” He whispered, his lips barely moving.

“No, I don’t think so,” Barty continued to smile, “because you’re going to get me off. We both know how this works. You hear the evidence; tell the court there’s too much reasonable doubt, the evidence is circumstantial; I get acquitted. You see, we can be mutually beneficial to one another—I stay out of prison and you get to be Minister for Magic. Wouldn’t do to muck up your record with a criminal son, now would it?”

“Barty, I cannot help you now, do you understand? What you have done…you have destroyed that family! They had a _son!”_ Bartemius’ eyes bulged. “A boy who is now, for all intents and purposes, an orphan! How could you have done such a thing?”

“Like this.” With his free hand, Barty mimed raising a wand and pointing it at something, mouthing the word _‘crucio.’_

“You are mad.” Bartemius’ stomach churned. “How can you glory in such a thing? What you have done…it is inexcusable.” He was looking at his son as though he had suddenly sprouted horns and a forked tongue.

“Oh, drop the piety, Father.” The boy's mouth contorted into a nasty sneer. “They knew the risks when they became Aurors, just as I knew the risks when I joined the Dark Lord. Occupational hazard.” He snorted.

_“But why?”_ Demanded Bartemius, shaking his son by the shoulders. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone—vanquished by the Potter boy. You have ruined your life on behalf of a dead man!”

The eerie smile slid off Barty’s face and, for the first time, he looked truly unhinged.

_“Shut your pathetic mouth!”_ He snarled. “He was more of a father to me than you _ever_ were! While you were busy kissing arse at the Ministry, he was teaching me magic you’ve never _dreamed_ of. If you want someone to blame for this, look in the mirror!”

“Take some responsibility!” Thundered Bartemius. “You may lay blame on me for many things—I have made countless mistakes, some that I will spend my life atoning for—but you _cannot_ blame me for what you have become! You _tortured_ those people! You have done something so vile—so irredeemable that Azkaban is the only possible sentence and even that is too gracious a punishment!”

“So noble.” Barty taunted. “That's what everyone thinks of you, isn't it? Perfect husband and father. Fine, upstanding, Ministry man. But we know better, don’t we? You forget, Father, that I know you. You’ve never let family get in the way of your ambition before, so why start now? Or perhaps you’ve turned over a new leaf? Found some shred of virtue locked away? Perhaps you need a bit of _persuasion.”_

“What the devil are you talking about?” Bartemius kept a firm hold on the handle of his wand, looking at his son with a mixture of fear and disgust.

“The Dark Lord will rise again, Father,” Barty said in a low voice. “He will return whether I am in prison or not. He will reward his faithful servants beyond measure. And those who opposed him, well…there are far worse things than death. I have friends, you know.” He laughed gleefully. “Friends with powers and connections that your precious Ministry could never match. Tell me, Father: you think arresting me will solve this problem? There are _hundreds_ more of us, and all eager to serve. They could pay you and Mother a late-night visit.”

It was Bartemius’ turn to be filled with irrational rage and he twitched impulsively, as though he was barely restraining himself from attacking his son.

“How dare you threaten your mother?” He roared furiously, spit flying out of his mouth. “She has sacrificed her entire life for you and this is your thanks? This will _destroy_ her when she hears of what you have done!”

The briefest sliver of remorse flickered across Barty’s eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“She’s a coward,” Barty smirked. “She would have left you years ago if she could’ve woken up and seen what was right in front of her big nose.”

Bartemius was on top of him in an instant, one hand wrapped around Barty’s throat and the other balled into a powerful fist that smashed into his jaw. Blood was pounding in his ears, he was squeezing tighter and tighter, Barty’s fingernails scrabbled against his hands—

_BANG_

The iron door flew open and Alastor Moody stumped in, wrenching Bartemius up by the collar. Barty spat at his father, spraying the floor with blood as Moody dragged Bartemius, panting, out of the room. Outside, he jerked away, straightening his robes and running a hand through his now disheveled hair. He slammed his fist into the wall and pressed his forehead against the cool stone.

“You shouldn’t have come down here,” Moody growled.

_“He’s my son.”_

* * *

Elsie stood rooted to the floor as Bartemius finished recounting his horrible story.

“What’s going to happen to him?” Her eyes were wide and tearful and he wished in that moment he was dead. How could he possibly tell her?

“There will be a trial.” The words spilled out of their own accord. “But it's only a formality. A courtesy because of my position. The evidence is…overwhelming.” He closed his eyes. “He will go to Azkaban. The use of an Unforgivable Curse…is a life sentence.”

“No.” Her lips were completely white. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.” He reached for her hand and she wrenched it away. “I'm sorry, Elizabeth.”

“You’re _LYING!”_ She shoved him with such force that he nearly lost his footing.

For one blessed moment, she thought he might get angry—might actually _feel_ something—but when his look of shock melted into resignation, Elsie wanted to scream.

“Fight back!” She shoved him again. “For God’s sake, Bartemius, what’s the matter with you? _Fight back!”_

He looked at her with deep sadness in his eyes—eyes that had never lied to her—and she suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“I am so sorry, Elsie.”

She did scream then, terrible and ragged, as she crumpled in a heap on the floor.

“My baby!” she wailed, her face agonized and slick with tears. “You have to do something, Barty, _please,_ you have to _do_ something!”

“Elsie…it is out of my hands. The boy must face his charges.”

“This is not some nameless criminal we’re talking about—this is our _son!”_ She cried. “Don’t you care at all?”

“Of course I care!” He said, anguished. “But there is nothing I can do! I cannot live with sending my only son to Azkaban, but neither can I simply let the boy off! They are in _St. Mungo’s,_ Elizabeth. The Healers believe they will not _ever_ recover. Do they not deserve justice? They have a _child_ —a boy, only a year old. He will grow up without ever knowing the true Frank and Alice. Does he not deserve to know that I did everything I could to atone for my own son’s actions—the son who took his parents from him before he was even able to speak?”

“Stop,” Elsie moaned, “oh god, please stop.” Her sobs were heartrending and raw and Bartemius’ stomach clenched painfully.

His knees must have given out because he found himself on the floor beside her, his hand hovering an inch above her back as if he were afraid that touching her would cause her more pain. _How could their family have come to this?_ There was a strangled cry and Bartemius realized dimly that it had come from him. His face was wet with tears and, as he looked over at his grieving wife, he understood exactly how Augusta Longbottom felt.

* * *

On the day of the trial, Bartemius was sick three times before he even left the house. Elsie thought she might be as well, but it had been three days since she had eaten anything and she was only able to cough and retch as she crouched over the toilet.

Neither of them slept the night before, and when they stood side-by-side in front of the fireplace, there was a heaviness about them, as though they were weighted down about the neck with stones.

“Ministry—” Barty's voice cracked. “Ministry of Magic.” He took Elsie’s arm and together they disappeared into the green flames, reappearing moments later in the dark, wood-paneled Atrium.

They were greeted by the familiar sounds of the Ministry’s morning bustle—witches and wizards hurrying in every direction, fireplaces glowing, and memos zooming over everyone’s heads.

Bartemius and Elsie made their way onto one of the lifts, where they were joined by two gossiping young witches who immediately fell silent. His stomach lurched as the grilles closed and Elsie broke out in a sheen of sweat, despite the fact that she was freezing underneath two jumpers.

When they stepped inside the courtroom, an unnatural hush fell over the crowd. Bartemius could feel a hundred eyes on him as he took his place at the bench. He fiddled with his glasses and leafed through the stack of parchment on the podium to spare himself from having to look at his poor, heartbroken Elsie.

Finally, he could put it off no longer and he raised his head to survey the throng of onlookers. His eyes found Alastor Moody, who gave him a grim nod, a shared look of understanding passing between them. Bartemius cleared his throat and dipped the red quill into a fresh pot of ink, signing his name across the trial documents.

“Bring them in.”

The heavy brass doors opened with a formidable echo, and the prisoners were led in, all four of them flanked by Dementors. They shuffled single-file into the courtroom and were fastened into the iron chairs that were placed in the middle of the floor. The golden chains snaked their way around them and, although Bartemius had seen these same chairs nearly every day for the past twenty years, today they seemed impossibly foreboding.

Mrs. Lestrange was clearly enjoying herself, basking in the attention as though she were famous. Her husband and brother-in-law, Rodolphus and Rabastan, sat silently, wearing the same stupid expressions they’d had on the day they were captured. On the very end sat Barty, pale and jittery, his freckles standing out against his milk-white skin.

Words could not do justice to Bartemius’ rage at the sight of his son trembling before him in court. He had committed to the act, this much was certain, and was already bleeding the jury for every ounce of sympathy he could garner.

Nerves jangling, Bartemius banged his gavel. Abigail and Mafalda, who had taken the seats next to Elsie, both jumped.

“I hereby call this hearing of the Council of Magical Law to order, the purpose of which being the determination of guilt for these four defendants. Bellatrix Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, and Bartemius Crouch Junior: you stand before us today accused of one of the most abhorrent crimes this court has ever had the misfortune of hearing. Should you be found guilty, your sentence will reflect the serious nature of these offenses.”

The courtroom was dead silent, everyone undoubtedly wondering if Bartemius could truly go through with it. To send one’s own child to Azkaban—it was unthinkable.

He was well aware of the community’s attitude regarding this case. Everyone had an opinion about the best course of action, including Elizabeth, who seemed to feel that he should let the boy off simply because he was their son. Of course, he could do no such thing. He was bound by honor and commitment to uphold the laws of the Wizarding World but, duty notwithstanding, he was bound by his own values. He had known Frank and Alice for years—he and Elsie had even had them over for dinner. Their son was now, for all intents and purposes, an orphan and they deserved every shred of justice he could accord them. 

However, the full magnitude of the task at hand was engulfing him and he was sweating underneath his robes; his breath came in shallow pants that only Elizabeth and the court scribe to his right could hear. His chest was impossibly tight and he wanted to run from the room, but the proceedings were already in motion and could not be undone. He had no choice but to press on.

The first witness was Alastor Moody, who had been the first on the scene at the Longbottom residence. Augusta Longbottom took the stand as well, giving a powerful testimony about Frank and Alice’s condition and pleading with the court to avenge her son and daughter-in-law.

The court called witness after witness and Bartemius could do nothing but listen, each time hoping irrationally that one of them would give some miraculous evidence that would exonerate his son. On the contrary, however; each testimony was more damning than the last, the final witness giving an account of Barty’s guilt so distressing that Mafalda Hopkirk had to excuse herself, sickly pale and holding a hand over her mouth.

It was becoming increasingly apparent that Barty and the others had meticulously planned their attack on the Longbottoms. He was not the ringleader—that, it would seem, was Bellatrix Lestrange—but he had known every detail of the plan from the very beginning, and had been the one to monitor the family’s whereabouts in the weeks before the crime. This, Bartemius felt, was even worse than the idea that his son had been a blind follower; this was premeditated—insidious.

_How could he have let this happen?_

Beside him, Elizabeth was crying, silent tears spilling down her cheeks as she rocked back and forth. He wanted to take her hand, wanted to do _something_ that would prove he was not oblivious to her suffering, but he could not move. He felt her eyes on him; he heard her wordless pleas to intervene. His face was burning, but he could not meet her gaze. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the witness as this nightmare continued to unfold.

Finally, after two more hours _,_ the evidence had been presented and the court stood in recess. The room slowly emptied as the jury was escorted to a side chamber for deliberation and the onlookers made their way out into the hall. Barty and the three other defendants were led to a holding cell, leaving Bartemius and Elizabeth alone together for the first time since they had left the house that morning.

She whimpered softly and he could restrain himself no longer. He pulled her into his lap and she brought her knees to her chest, curling up like a child.

The minutes ticked by in heavy silence, each one carrying the weight of an eternity. Even so, he would have been content to hold her until the end of time. He knew she still clung to the naive hope that their son might be acquitted and Bartemius would have done anything in the world to shield her from the suffering she was about to endure.

There were a million things he wanted to say— _I love you, I'm so sorry, it'll be alright_ —but all of them felt empty and meaningless. Flimsy ghosts of the things his inadequate tongue would never be able to convey. Tears stung his eyes as he rocked her gently, resting his chin on the top of her head and willing her to feel the depth of his remorse.

“Barty.” Bartemius opened his eyes and Mafalda Hopkirk was standing beside them, her own eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “It’s time.”

He checked his pocket watch. 23 minutes. He looked up at Mafalda but she didn’t meet his gaze, confirming one of the cardinal truths he had learned throughout his time in Magical Law Enforcement. _Juries did not deliberate for an amount of time this short unless they were ready to convict._

Steeling himself, he thanked Mafalda and helped Elsie back into her chair. She looked drunk; limp and lolling like a rag doll.

He went to straighten his collar but found suddenly that he could not; a tiny crease had formed where the bridge of Elsie’s nose had been pressed into his neck and the idea of removing it was strangely unbearable.

“Bring them in.” He said for the second time.

The prisoners were escorted back inside the courtroom, followed by the jury, who returned looking rather shaken. When everyone was seated, Bartemius spoke.

“Bellatrix Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, and Bartemius Crouch Junior: you are faced with the charges of attempted murder and torture by means of the repeated use of the Cruciatus Curse.”

The foreman slipped a small scroll of parchment to the court scribe who, in turn, handed it to Bartemius. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it, fighting the sudden urge to ball it up and hurl it as far away from him as possible. His hands were shaking uncontrollably; he dropped the parchment twice before managing to unroll it.

One word was scrawled in black cursive. A word that seemed to burn his eyes and sear his heart. A word that would echo in his nightmares for the rest of his life.

“…Guilty.”

The crowd seemed to explode with an uproar of gasps and cheers.

“NO, FATHER!” Barty screamed up at him, his cries echoing off the ornately patterned walls. “Please, I’m your son! I’m your son! _Mother!”_ Tears were streaming down his cheeks now, mirrored by that of Elsie’s. “Mother, don’t let him, I swear I didn’t know! Mother, I didn’t do it, _please!”_

Elsie sagged into Mafalda’s arms, sobbing convulsively. Bartemius felt frozen in time; like he was watching the proceedings take place around him but was floating above himself, removed from the horror of it.

As the boy stared up at him, Bartemius could see true fear in his green eyes—eyes that were the exact same color as Elizabeth’s.

His stomach flipped inside out.

_Could it be that this was all some sort of terrible misunderstanding? Surely there was some reason…some explanation that wouldn’t consign his son to this seemingly inevitable fate. His son…the boy who had curled up on his chest; waited beside the fireplace for him to come home; written, “I love you Father” on notebook paper with blue crayon…_

Widening his eyes in a nonverbal plea, Barty met his father’s gaze. Then, quickly—so quickly that no one else in the courtroom saw—he winked. And at that moment, Bartemius felt the last shred of hope break away from his heart and fall into the abyss like a cold, hard stone.

“You are no son of mine!” He bellowed. “I have no son!”

Elsie gave a great, shuddering gasp and collapsed beside him. He made to reach for her, but Mafalda and Abigail were already there, casting a Reviving Charm and propping her up as she moaned faintly.

Rising from the bench, Bartemius forced himself to look upon his son. Bile rose in his throat.

“It is only fitting that the atrocity of your crime merits the most severe punishment this court can give.” He addressed the prisoners. His fingertips were numb and tingling; he was going to pass out like Elizabeth, he was sure of it. “A life sentence in Azkaban, for all of you. And may you rot there for the wicked deeds you have done.” 

He banged his gavel once again, to signify the end of the trial. Barty was trying desperately to fight off the Dementors that were now approaching him, his screams fading as they dragged him down the hall. With their heads bowed and eyes downcast, the crowd drifted through the courtroom doors in total silence. Abigail and Mafalda each took one of Elsie’s arms and led her out; no doubt planning to administer some of the Dreamless Sleep potion that Horace had so kindly sent.

When they were gone, Bartemius was all alone in the cavernous room. He knew there would be another trial starting shortly, but he could not make himself move. It was an apt metaphor, he thought darkly—he had ended up exactly as he had begun: alone. His son was gone forever, doomed to an excruciatingly painful remainder of life and an even crueler death. And Elizabeth. His sweet Elsie. He knew, almost instinctively, that she would never recover from this.

He had lost them both.

He conjured the bucket just in time to be violently sick into it. With a whispered _‘tergeo,’_ his mind flashed back to the time Elsie had been visiting her parents in Fionnphort and little Barty had gotten sick. Bartemius sat up with him all night, periodically casting the cleaning spell whenever the boy vomited. He was nearly as pale then as he’d been today, at his own trial.

 _‘I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to.’_ He’d said, over and over again.

Of course, he had reassured the boy countless times that he was not angry with him in the slightest, but the poor child apologized every time he was sick until Elsie returned home the next morning.

Now, staring at the empty chair where he had condemned his only son to death, he whispered his own apology.

But the empty chair did not speak. And he knew it was too late.

* * *

_Two weeks later_

His first day back at the Ministry, Bartemius Crouch was hunched over his desk, unsuccessfully trying to fill out the paperwork for an artifact raid. It was simple enough—something he normally would have assigned one of his aides to complete—but today he found that he was unable to focus even on this small task.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. _‘You are no son of mine’_ replayed over and over again in his mind, like a never-ending carousel.

“Scrimgeour, I—oh!” Cornelius Fudge had stepped into Bartemius’ office and stalled. “Sorry, Barty, I was expecting Rufus…that is to say, I assumed you’d be with Elsie.”

Bartemius nodded but said nothing. Fudge rocked back and forth on his heels, looking as though he wished he were anywhere else.

“Awful thing, Barty...just awful. Our deepest sympathies are with you, Abbie and I.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine but, you know, you did the right thing. An impossible thing, but…right. I suppose you’ll sleep well, at least, knowing that.”

“No,” Barty said quietly, “I never expect to sleep again.”

“Yes, well…” Fudge's eyes shifted towards the door, “perhaps it’s best if you took a couple more days at home?”

Once again, Barty said nothing and Fudge smiled awkwardly, muttering something about “need to get down to IMC…Shaw expecting me…” and hurried out of the office as if he were being chased, leaving Bartemius alone again with his quill and blank parchment.

Perhaps he _wasn’t_ ready to return to work. Bartemius had been offered a leave of absence from the Ministry, but he could not stand to stay home any longer with nothing but Elizabeth’s grief and his own maddening, cyclical thoughts for company.

A week ago, he had owled Millicent Bagnold and gotten approval to return early. (“We’d love to have you back, of course, if you’re feeling up to it.”) The very next morning found him up before the sun, straightening his tie and Apparating into the familiar confines of the Ministry. He had been looking forward to returning to work—felt that he was surely going mad shut up inside the house—but, from the moment he stepped inside his office, all he was able to think about was Elsie. He was terrified to leave her alone—he had nightmares about coming home and finding her drowned in the bathroom or overdosed on Draught of Living Death.

He had mentioned this once—asked her if she was going to be alright by herself—but she had just looked at him with that blank stare that had become so familiar. She had lost her will to live.

For a brief period of time following the trial, he had been hopeful that she would rebound from this—Abigail and Mafalda would visit for tea and she was sleeping a bit better, but soon the reality of the situation had sunken in and she realized that they would never see Barty again. Then she was worse off than before: hardly eating, sleeping all day or not at all, spending hours in Barty’s room, looking through photo albums, lying on his bed and smelling his clothes as though trying to inhale one final trace of him.

She was completely devastated.

Looking at her now, all curled up in the middle of the bed, his heart ached. She looked so fragile—a wisp of the woman she had once been. He knew he couldn’t leave her here in this state.

And so, when Bartemius Crouch left for work the second day, Elsie came with him.

When they emerged from the fireplace in the Atrium, the noise seemed deafening. Elsie burrowed closer to Bartemius and he wrapped an arm around her, glancing around at his colleagues as if daring them to say something.

“Barty!” A familiar voice rose above the clamor. Abigail Fudge weaved through the crowd to catch up with them, the smile vanishing from her lips as soon as she saw her friend. Elsie had always been thin, but now…there was hardly anything left of her. Her face was pale and gaunt and her once beautiful green eyes had become dull and lifeless.

“Sweet Merlin,” Abigail whispered.

Bartemius gave her a grave nod, which she understood as consent to step in.

“Hi, love.” She gave Elsie a quick hug and glanced back at him. “You go on upstairs, Barty, I’m sure you have work to do. If you don’t mind, I’ll take Elsie with me for a bit; we'll have a spot of tea.”

Barty nodded mechanically and set off in the opposite direction, his gait stilted and awkward, as though he was trying too hard to appear normal.

Abigail led Elsie into one of the lifts and spoke in a calm, soothing voice to her.

“We’re just going to take you upstairs and sit you down for a moment. We’ll get you a nice warm cup of tea; you can have a little rest…” She smoothed Elsie’s hair. “A bit of time away from the house will do you good.”

* * *

Five minutes later, Elsie had her hands wrapped around an untouched, steaming mug of tea. She and Abigail had been sitting in silence for more than half an hour, with only the soft _tick_ of the clock and the occasional clink of china to disturb the quiet.

Even in her daze, Elsie recognized the rarity of a friend like Abbie—she didn’t push, didn’t pry; she was simply content to let her be, trusting that she would open up in her own time.

“Rita told me it would be a mistake to marry Bartemius,” Elsie said finally. “I suppose she was right after all.”

Abigail’s heart sank.

“Don’t say that. That man loves you—he would do anything for you.”

“Except save my son.”

Abigail reached across the table for Elsie’s hand.

“Oh, Elsie, he _couldn’t._ He was in an awful position, the poor man. How would it look, after all those Death Eaters he’d convicted, if he pardoned Barty’s case?”

At the sound of her son’s name, Elsie shook her head and pressed a fist to her mouth.

“My baby, my sweet boy. What am I to do?”

“You know I love him like my own son—we all do. Mafalda cried her eyes out when she heard the news. But, darling, you didn’t make the choice for him. You can’t help what he…what he did.”

“He was so angry the last time I saw him,” Elsie said hollowly. “Screamed at me that I’d chosen Bartemius’ side, that he was sick of trying to please him…I should have gone after him...noticed something was wrong...written Minerva, maybe…”

“You _cannot_ blame yourself,” Abigail said fiercely. “You were a wonderful mother to that boy. You gave him everything.”

“I gave him everything.” Elsie parroted. “Bartemius always said I coddled him. Perhaps—if I’d been tougher on him….”

“No. Stop that.” Abigail’s hand was clamped tightly upon Elsie’s wrist. “You stop that right now. You have done _nothing_ wrong and I will not sit here and let you convince yourself that Barty’s actions had anything to do with you.”

A single tear rolled down Elsie’s cheek.

“I don’t know what to do. I feel like half a person.”

“Then _do_ something!” Abigail leaned forward. “Write letters of appeal, join The Order, volunteer with Poppy at St. Mungo’s! If you can save one life—prevent even one child from going down the path that Barty did—wouldn’t it be worth it?”

Elsie focused on a small ink splatter on Fudge’s desk.

“Do something…save a life.” She whispered.

“Yes!” Abigail nodded forcefully, relieved that her point seemed to have sunk in.

“My God, Abbie, you’re right.” She breathed. “I have an idea.”

“Well…well, good.” Abigail patted her on the arm. “…What is it?”

But Elsie was off, pacing the room and muttering to herself, counting on her fingers as she walked in circles.

“Twenty-one days…the next full moon…in the attic, I think…probably expired by now…but I’m sure he’d let me borrow some…”

“Elsie?” Abigail asked tentatively, unsettled by this sudden turnaround.

“Abbie.” She said, looking at her friend as though she had just seen her for the first time. “I’m sorry, I—I have to go. Lots to do, but we should have tea soon. Tell Barty I’ve gone home and not to worry!”

And then she was gone, disappearing down the hallway as Abigail wondered what in the world had just happened.

* * *

Evidently, Elsie’s conversation with Abigail had thoroughly resonated with her, because when Bartemius came home that evening, he found her in the kitchen, bent over a steaming cauldron, cheeks flushed and sweaty.

“What’s all this?” He asked. Her eyes met his and she looked manic; frightening.

“I’m working.” She said breathlessly. “Hand me those lacewing flies.”

He picked up the glass bottle but did not give them to her.

“Is this about the apothecary? Has Slughorn asked you to come back to work?”

She shook her head and motioned for the vial.

“Give them to me, Bartemius.”

He glanced around the kitchen at the scattered ingredients. Fluxweed. Knotgrass. A jar of shredded Boomslang skin.

“What is this?” He asked again.

“Polyjuice Potion, now hand me the damn lacewing flies.”

A sense of foreboding crept into his mind.

She must have felt that he hesitated a moment too long because she suddenly lunged for them, trying in vain to snatch the bottle out of his hands.

“Elizabeth, why are you brewing Polyjuice Potion?” He asked slowly. “You know as well as I do that this is a restricted substance, particularly now, when it has been used to conceal the true identities of Death Eaters.”

She met his gaze with a mixture of guilt and defiance and Bartemius was reminded powerfully of his son.

“I’m switching places with him.”

“Switching places with…with who? With—” Realization dawned on him and he stopped cold. “Absolutely not. Stop it right now, Elizabeth, empty this cauldron at once.”

_“No.”_ She stepped protectively in front of it, shielding it with her arms as though it were a baby. “He’s my _son._ If you won’t help him, then I will. Bartemius, _get out of my way.”_ She said angrily, as he made to move in between her and the cauldron.

Reaching around her, he pointed his wand at the potion and it immediately evaporated.

_“Damn_ it, Barty! Now I have to start all over again, do you have any idea how much work that was?”

“This is insane.” He ran a hand over his chin. “Even if, by some miracle, this plan was successful, it is against the law! Be reasonable, Elizabeth, this is your _life_ we are talking about!”

“I don’t care! What about _his_ life? For heaven’s sake, you’ve _been_ to Azkaban, you _know_ how awful it is! You might be content to let him die there, but I am not! Now _get out of my way!”_ She shoved him aside and began scrubbing the cauldron violently.

“Elizabeth, stop.” He took her hands and trapped them beneath his.

“Don’t touch me, don’t you dare—”

He wrapped his arms around her as she dissolved into tears.

“Elizabeth.” His voice was low; quiet. “I am as devastated as you are. _I am._ This was the last thing in the world I wanted. If I could fix this for you, I would, please know that.”

“I hate you.” She sobbed into his neck. “I _hate_ you.”

In that moment, Bartemius could have sworn he felt his heart physically break. Even after all these years—all the late nights and arguments and differences of opinion—she had never said those three terrible words. _I hate you._ He felt the entire weight of this nightmare crashing down upon him and he knew, even as he held her, that there would be no fixing things this time.

* * *

_ Golden Boy Turned Death Eater: Son of Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Convicted of Torture _

On November 7th of 1981, Bartemius Crouch Junior, Bellatrix Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, and Rabastan Lestrange were convicted of premeditated torture and attempted murder of ex-Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom. The four of them are being held under round-the-clock supervision, awaiting their transport to Azkaban prison, where they will serve out the remainder of their days in solitary confinement.

The Lestranges all pled guilty, proudly admitting to what they had done, and only Bartemius Crouch Junior entered a plea of innocence, maintaining that he had nothing to do with the crimes and was unaware that they were going to take place, despite an insider report that, in the days before the trial, he confessed to being involved at the highest level.

Many witches and wizards are viewing this tragic story as a cautionary tale; proof that the reach of You-Know-Who has spread far and wide. Parents everywhere are taking a heightened interest in their children’s lives, lest they end up like 19-year old Mr. Crouch.

Known to friends and family as ‘Barty,’ Bartemius Crouch Jr. is a graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he earned excellent marks and, at one time, was considering a career as an Auror. Unfortunately, this young man (son of the highly celebrated Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Bartemius Crouch and his wife Elizabeth), will spend the rest of his life in Azkaban, guarded by the infamously uncharitable Dementors.

The Crouch family is a well-known pureblood dynasty (one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight) that has always commanded the respect of the Wizarding World. It appears, however, that the bloodline will end here, as Barty Junior was the only child of Elizabeth and Bartemius, and the sole heir to the Crouch name.

The family has declined to comment, but sources reveal that the Crouches are attempting to regain some semblance of normalcy, if there is ever again normalcy to be had. Bartemius Crouch Senior has returned to work at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and Elizabeth remains at home, devastated by the loss of her only son. It is unclear what, if any, impact these events will have upon Bartemius’ aspirations to become Minister of Magic, but one thing is certain: The Crouch family will not soon be forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I have to admit, I wasn’t sure I was going to get this chapter done in time. With all the craziness at school and the election, I was racing to get it finished in time. Then, when I did my final read-through, I was like, wowza, this is depressing. I kind of don’t know what to say about it. I mean, we all knew this was coming, but just imagine being Elsie and Barty and realizing that your son—your own flesh and blood—was capable of something like this. Ouch. As you can probably guess, this was not a chapter that was super conducive to a post-writing dance party, lol.
> 
> BUT, even though it’s long and even though it’s a bummer, I have to say that I’m kind of proud of this one. It took a lot of writing and re-writing (and re-writing and re-writing) and I am usually the type of person that gets frustrated and gives up, so this was a win!
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading, as always, and I’ll have the next chapter up on the 27th! (Only 5 more to go!)
> 
> Love you all!  
> Xx LimeGreenSockFt xX


	16. Red Lace-Up Shoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! I hope everyone is safe and healthy and having a wonderful holiday. (I have COVID, but, you know, at least it's given me some time to write?)
> 
> Anyway, as a fun holiday special, I've decided to post three chapters today, instead of the usual one. This is partially because I want to finish this story before the year is over, and partially because I had them finished early and have no self-control.
> 
> Anyway, here they are!

Barty’s first night in Azkaban was the most awful of his life. It was freezing cold and filthy, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the mental torture. He had never felt such blackness—like everything good in his life had been swallowed up forever. He screamed for his mother until his throat was raw and bloody.

There was a man down the hall that tried to talk to him—he had long, scraggly black hair and looked thin and gaunt like a corpse. Barty tried not to imagine what his own body would look like after a few months in this place.

Despite his grim appearance, the man seemed completely sane. He even had an air of assurance about him—a quiet confidence. He waited until Barty had screamed himself hoarse before speaking to him.

“The first week is the worst.” He rasped. “After that, it gets better. Not much, but it gets better.”

Barty said nothing; he was in the corner, weak and shaking.

“What did you do to get thrown in here?” Asked the man. “Can’t have been too bad, from the looks of you. You’re what? Eighteen? Nineteen? When’s your release date?”

Barty shook his head.

“You don’t mean…they haven’t given you a life sentence?”

Barty nodded. The man looked appalled.

“Bastards. A kid like you in a place like this…it isn’t right.” He shook his head in disgust. “Did you do it? Whatever it was you were accused of?”

Barty shivered.

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” The man said with a faraway look in his eyes. “No one deserves to be in a place like this.”

As the sun began to set, the prison grew dark and impossibly cold. The effect of the Dementors seemed to become even more oppressive and, if the window had been big enough, Barty would have given in to the unbearable urge to throw himself into the black and stormy sea.

The man was still talking but Barty had stopped listening. There was no point. If he was going to go mad in here, he might as well go ahead and get on with it.

* * *

A year later, Barty lay on his side in a pool of rancid liquid—a vile combination of soured water and bodily fluids. He watched a maggot crawl out of yesterday’s bread. He could barely move. It wouldn’t be long now. He’d been losing consciousness more and more often, which was a bit of a blessing in itself, but he knew in his lucid moments that it meant his body was failing.

It seemed as though each day was the length of ten—the same cycle of horrors on repeat; a never-ending loop of suffering that slowly leached away his remaining sanity. He didn’t scream anymore. He didn’t make noise at all. He had always been lean, but what body mass he'd had quickly melted away, leaving a corpse cloaked with sallow skin.

The man down the hall said he was “losing the will to live,” but had never given up on trying to talk. Barty never responded, but this did nothing to deter the man—he said it was good for him to talk and good for Barty to listen.

Every day, he talked for hours about Quidditch and his years at Hogwarts and the first thing he would eat if he ever got out of here. Sometimes he told stories of his two best friends and how much he missed them. From what Barty could gather (with brain cells that were not functioning at full capacity) one of them was dead, and the other was still out there somewhere, believing the Ministry’s lie that the man was a murderer. This, he told Barty, was the reason he was in prison to begin with—he had been framed.

When he wasn’t talking to Barty, the man was talking to himself, muttering about rats and traitors and Harry Potter. Once upon a time, the prospect of intel like this would have excited Barty—something he could take back to the Dark Lord to prove his worth—but now it was all he could do to lift his head and listen. He didn’t understand how the man had enough energy to speak.

Barty hadn’t spoken for weeks. Or had it been months? He didn’t know how long he had been here—sometimes he thought he had aged years; other times he was sure this was all just one horrible, endless day, stretching out like an infinite line. His mind played out a smattering of scenarios on repeat—his capture, his trial, the guilty verdict handed down to him by his own father.

 _His father._ The only time he was able to muster up any kind of measurable emotion was when he thought of the heartless Ministry sod who’d sent here. Useless, pathetic old man. What good was having a father that worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if he refused to pardon his only son? And his mother, she was of no use to him either. The spineless woman had done nothing to stop his father from throwing him in here.

As a boy, Barty had loved his mother, unlike his boring, workaholic father who’d insisted on that god-awful name. _“Bartemius Crouch Jr.”_ He despised his name almost as much as the man who gave it to him.

He remembered both of them at his trial—his father’s cold indifference and Mother’s pitiful display of emotion. She’d blubbered throughout the entire thing, and fainted when his sentence was read. Oh, she’d begged his father to clear him of all charges, he knew. The night before he was taken away, they’d brought him home. Apparently, his father had gotten special permission from the Ministry for him to spend his final night lying awake in a bedroom still adorned with tiny fire-breathing dragons, bound to his bed by a Sticking Charm and listening to his parents pacing back and forth above him, discussing his fate.

“Elizabeth, we’ve been through this—”

“No, no, stop it!” She was hysterical, and her voice was nearly an octave too high. “You can talk to the Ministry—they’ll listen to you! You—you have to—we have to—I can’t _live_ with myself if we do nothing!”

Of course, the old fool wouldn’t hear of it.

“There is nothing to be done! Your son is a Death Eater!”

She gasped sharply.

 _“Our_ son!”

“…Our son.” His voice was sober, chastened. “You heard the evidence—you sat through the trial. He tortured Frank and Alice so excessively the Healers at St. Mungo’s say they won’t ever regain their sanity.”

“Not my boy.” She'd sobbed. “He wouldn’t.”

Barty couldn’t see through the ceiling, but he could picture well enough the display taking place. His father would let her cry in his arms and pretend to listen before feeding her the company line about upholding Wizarding law. He never gave a damn about either of them—him or Mother.

Barty had to strain to hear his father’s muffled voice.

“Any jury in the world would have convicted him. With the witnesses and that amount of evidence...the proof was incontrovertible.”

So what? His stupid father wouldn’t know proof if it hexed him between the eyes.

“My sweet boy,” his mother moaned through tears. “How could we let this happen, Barty?”

His father murmured something to her, too quiet for Barty to hear through the vent.

“Please,” Her voice was raw. “Bartemius—”

“He had a trial. It's—it is all that I could do.”

He sounded surprisingly guilt-ridden, but Barty knew it was all an act. The Great Bartemius Crouch. His precious job was more important to him than his family would ever be. And if he had any doubts about sending his only son to Azkaban, it was only because he knew his reputation would be destroyed—not because he held any affection for him. His father had never loved him. Not like he loved Barty’s mother. His son had always been a failure in his eyes. Never smart enough or organized enough or ambitious enough.

He was ambitious now, though, wasn’t he? He was one of the Dark Lord’s most faithful servants, proving his loyalty time and time again; rising through the ranks quickly. And did he run off like that coward Rosier, before he was hunted down and killed by Aurors? Did he shrink away from doing what needed to be done? No. He was the one chosen over Black and Malfoy and Rookwood. _He_ was the one handpicked for the job. And he was the one who would be rewarded beyond his wildest dreams when Azkaban was broken open and the faithful few were reunited with the Dark Lord.

Guess that wasn’t the sort of ambition his father was looking for.

He heard his mother’s voice in his head: _“He_ does _love you, Barty, of course he does!”_ He would have laughed if he had the strength. His father’s approval meant nothing to him anymore. Somewhere along that way he’d simply stopped caring.

He’d stopped caring about a lot of things. Schoolwork, good marks, being a Prefect—it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to go on and have some illustrious Ministry career like his father, and he hadn’t wanted to be an Auror since he was twelve. More than anything, he’d wanted to play Quidditch—maybe for the Wasps like his uncle Ludo. Hooch said he had the talent, but she was always scolding that he didn’t apply himself; didn’t put in the effort. This should have bothered him, he knew; but, like everything else, he was indifferent.

Take those foolish Aurors, for example. He had no remorse for what he’d done. Oh, he’d pled not guilty at his trial, begging his father’s mercy and crying for his mother, but his innocence was a farce. His father knew it, of course, but Mother had always been blind when it came to him. _Her darling son._ She’d seen only what she wanted to see. To her, he was still just a sweet little boy, even when everyone else could see what he was becoming.

His fifth year at Hogwarts, McGonagall and Flitwick had both sent owls home, expressing their concerns about Barty's “display of disturbing behavior.” He’d been caught on the fifth floor trying to hex one of the first years.

As expected, his father went through the roof. His mother seemed more disappointed than anything. ( _“Why_ would you do something like this, Barty, I just don’t understand!” She’d said over and over to him.)

The next letter home was much more serious. That daft cow Madam Pince had reported him for stealing a book on Unforgivable Curses from the Restricted Section and Slughorn, fond of the boy though he was, insisted that he would have to write to Barty’s parents and inform them that he would serve a week’s worth of detentions in the library and henceforth be banned from the Restricted Section, with the exception of special permission.

Of course, Slughorn couldn’t have known that Barty had nicked the letter from his office and replaced it with one that said he’d been recognized for outstanding marks in his class. Severus Snape had charmed the ink to look like Slughorn’s handwriting. Once he'd taught Barty how, he did the same for every letter home, not that there were many after that—by this time, he had nearly mastered the art of deceit. He knew that his cleverness paired with his father’s prestige was a potent combination, and he could get away with nearly anything by feigning sincerity.

And he wasn’t alone in his devilry. Despite his “Ravenclaw Shame,” or so his friends called it, Barty was the only son of a prominent, pure-blood, Sacred Twenty-Eight family, and this afforded him a sense of status and belonging among a tight-knit group of Slytherins who were known for having strong ties to the Dark Arts: Evan Rosier, Regulus Black; Snape as well, of course, along with Avery and Mulciber. Then Rowle joined their little group, followed by the Carrows, and it wasn’t long before they had earned a reputation for ruthlessness and spite—no one dared interfere with them. They ruled Hogwarts and anyone who got in their way quickly learned what they were capable of.

All that was gone now, though. He was cold and hungry and reliving his most awful memories over and over again. He lay slumped on the wet stone, too far gone even to shiver, let alone drag his weak body to the bed.

There was nothing to look forward to. He wasn’t in tomorrow or next week or next month—he was in this moment. And stretching out ahead of him was a million more piercing, torturous moments.

Although…perhaps not _so_ many more. Even in his stupor, he knew that he couldn’t last much longer. He wasn’t cold anymore; he didn’t feel the hunger pangs. How many days since he’d eaten or drank anything? Four? Five? He couldn’t remember, but there was almost a week’s worth of food piled up in the corner, untouched and teeming with flies. He couldn’t have eaten it even if he’d wanted to—the strength it would have taken to cross the room just wasn’t in him.

It wouldn’t be long now. Even the man across the hall knew it. He didn’t talk to Barty so much anymore. He barely spoke at all now, even to himself.

It was almost comforting, really—the thought that all this would be over soon.

With a burst of homesickness, Barty thought of his mother. For everything that happened, he _had_ loved her, especially when he was a boy. When Father would work late, or had broken yet another promise, she would kiss him on the nose and make him laugh until he couldn’t remember what he had been upset about in the first place. Then they would change into their pajamas and sit on the couch, eating lemon tarts and watching “Wendell Wizard and the Wise Werewolf” until he fell asleep in her lap. “Pajama Parties,” she called them.

She was a good mother. He missed the sound of her voice and the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled at him. He wished she was here—wished he could sit on her lap once more, covered with a soft blanket and listening to the steady rhythm of her heart. He didn’t want to die alone in this godforsaken prison.

The wind whistled through the corridors; ghostly and cold. Barty felt his eyes closing. He was so tired.

“Barty?” A soft voice muddled into his head. No one had called him by name in a year. Opening his eyes, he saw them there, standing outside his cell. A fever dream, surely.

Then a dementor, waving the door open with a rusty screech.

Then a voice—the man from down the hall: “Crouch! When’s my trial?”

Then perfectly shined black Oxfords in front of him.

Then, beside them, a pair of tiny feet in red lace-up shoes he’d bought her for Christmas in his third year.

He blinked slowly.

“Mother?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This one was surprisingly difficult, I guess maybe because I'm not accustomed to writing from Barty Jr.'s perspective. He's such an interesting character and I think his life could have been so different if he hadn't fallen in with the wrong people. (Frickin' dang it, Voldemort!) 
> 
> Anyway, this was one of my shorter chapters, but here it is! Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFeet xX


	17. Ends of the Earth

The journey to Azkaban was grueling. Elizabeth was already so frail, and the long boat ride across the harsh, bitter sea only served to weaken her further. Standing on the rocky shore of the island, Bartemius Crouch wrapped his cloak around his wife's tiny shoulders. She shivered violently.

The freezing sea spray mingled with the unnatural chill that could only be inspired by thousands of dementors. He felt his insides grow cold as Elizabeth clutched his arm and looked up at him. He didn't have to voice the question in his mind; she knew his thoughts with or without words. _Elizabeth, are you_ absolutely _sure?_ She said nothing in response, and he knew that she would not be swayed. Bartemius could feel her trembling against him, but the fear in her eyes was overpowered by resolve.

His heart sank, but he tightened his grip around her shoulders and led her into the prison.

She would go to the ends of the earth for that boy.

* * *

Bartemius had done everything short of Confunding his wife to convince her not to go through with this. Not only would they be aiding a convicted death eater in escaping from prison, but she wanted to take his place? It was _mad_. It would be a miracle if they didn’t both end up in Azkaban—though perhaps they would be cellmates, he thought darkly.

He could have refused her, of course, but she never would have forgiven him. He loved her so much. How could he deny her this? She had sacrificed endlessly throughout the course of their marriage; she'd given until it hurt in ways that no one but he could ever know or understand. 

Then, just when it seemed as though all of his hard work would finally pay off—when he was all but guaranteed to be the next Minister for Magic; when he would have finally been able to slow down and come home early, to spend time with his family—the news about their son. Not just a criminal, not even just a Death Eater—the worst kind of Death Eater.

Bartemius had seen the photos of Frank and Alice. He had seen the chunks of hair ripped from their heads; the carpet so drenched with blood that it was no longer green but black. He had seen them naked on the floor, mouths slack and drooling. Driven insane from hours of the Cruciatus Curse.

He went to see them in St. Mungo’s, before the trial. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to find, but the reality was appalling. The two of them shared a room on the fourth floor. The long-term residents' ward. Frank’s mother Augusta was there with the young boy, Neville, who was chubby-cheeked and playing with a toy dragon on the floor. The boy was gurgling happily but, Augusta, however, looked grim and exhausted. He could see in her eyes the same question that haunted his own: how could he have raised such a monster?

“It’ll be a life sentence for them.” He said quietly. “I’m so sorry. I—I wish there were more I could do.”

The young boy began crying before Mrs. Longbottom could respond and she busied herself with him, rummaging in her purse for a pacifier. Behind her, Alice rocked back and forth while Frank stared at the wall.

Muttering apologies, Barty ducked into the hall and made his way quickly through the hospital doors, where he was violently sick in the flowerbed. “Apparition.” He’d panted, when a young Healer asked if he was alright.

His son had done this. His boy.

It had devastated Elizabeth. His poor Elsie. Their son was everything to her. He'd worked so often when Barty was young that she and Winky had practically raised him alone. She had devoted her entire life to him, only to be left with a fanatical, bloodthirsty son and a husband who had nothing to show for his years of neglect.

Their entire life destroyed in a single act. All the hours he put in, only to be demoted; quietly tucked away in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. All the missed birthdays and late nights at the office, just to watch Cornelius Fudge be made Minister for Magic while his family was ripped apart. He would never whole again. _Elsie_ would never be whole again.

Amidst their shared grief and heartache, she asked him over and over again for the one thing he could not give her. Her son. She begged and cried and pleaded with him endlessly, her tears like a dagger in his heart. But still, he could not bring himself to do it.

When she collapsed at home, weak with exhaustion and shock, the Healers at St. Mungo's confirmed his worst fear: she was dying. They could give no reason; no medical prognosis or treatment—only that her body was failing. She had resigned herself to death, and, when she asked him one final time, Bartemius realized that he was losing her anyway. With or without the fulfillment of her final wish. 

So, yes, he supposed he could have refused her.

But not really.

Still, this didn’t deter him from doing everything he could to convince her otherwise.

“Elizabeth, I’m begging you to reconsider.”

“No.”

“Elsie—”

“It’s only a matter of time, Barty, you heard what the Healers said. I only have a month left.”

“Elsie.”

“He’ll _die_ in there. Barty, he’s our only son and he’ll _die_ in that awful place.” She laid a frail hand on his arm. “And you’ll be all alone.”

Bartemius said nothing.

“At least this way you’ll have one of us. Please, Bartemius. Please do this for me.”

“Very well,” he had agreed tightly and left the room, unwilling to let his wife see him cry.

* * *

As they approached the bars, Bartemius wrapped an arm around his wife, although the idea that he could still protect her was laughable. A dementor slid the bars open with a wave of its scabby hand and retreated to the end of the hallway where it hovered forebodingly.

Holding his hand, Elsie took a tentative step inside their son’s cell and immediately froze. She looked at Bartemius, who was equally horrified; the color all but drained from his face.

It was painfully clear that their son was near death. He was huddled in the corner of the room, ashen and skinny as a rail. His breathing came in slow, rattling gasps, each one punctuated by a watery cough. His skin was sallow; his eyes were swollen with infection. He had a coarse, uneven beard and long greasy hair. His scalp was red and scaly, with patches missing where he had scratched at the sores and lice.

“Mother?” he croaked. His voice was hoarse from lack of use.

Elsie reached for him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Bartemius pushed her behind him and bent down himself, pulling Barty into a sitting position. His stomach lurched at the smell.

“Father.”

The trial flashed through Bartemius’ mind. Barty had begged him for mercy—swore that he hadn’t done it. His face had been white—his eyes wide with terror. Elizabeth was crying next to him—gasping, heart-wrenching sobs. All Bartemius could feel was numb. “Father, please! _I’m your son_!” He had screamed up at him.

“ _I have no son_.” the words had come out of his mouth as though they belonged to someone else.

Looking down at his feeble, deteriorating son, Barty remembered that day with painful clarity. He had never been able to purge the guilt he felt over sending him to Azkaban. There was nothing he could have done, of course—justice had to be served. The Wizengamot had demanded it and the Longbottoms had earned it. And his son had deserved it. But, somehow, the same logic and rationalization that had served him all his life had been unable to soothe his burning regret.

Looking up at his parents, the boy blinked sluggishly, as though trying to work out whether or not they were really there. Bartemius nodded curtly and thrust a small vial of Restorative Draught at his son. The boy’s hands were shaking too badly to open it so Bartemius, his own hands trembling, waved his wand and uncorked the bottle. Barty drank it quietly and sighed, a bit of color returning to his face.

“You’ve come to say goodbye.” Their son managed a small, bitter smile. “It won’t be long I expect.”

“No. Your mother and I—your mother is very ill. The healers at St. Mungo’s do not believe she has much time left. I know I have not been the husband she deserves, but, as a final request, she has asked me to free you and I have agreed.”

“Breaking the law for your family,” Barty tsked. “What would your precious Ministry think?”

Bartemius’ eyes flashed.

“If you think this has not caused me great distress, you are severely mistaken. I am abandoning every principle and ideal I have worked my entire life to uphold.” He hissed. “I cannot believe I am allowing this to happen.”

“Well, father. I’m impressed. Putting your family first. Must be hard for you.”

“Do not misunderstand me. This is not for you. No matter what personal guilt I have endured because of it, you are exactly where you belong. I am doing this for your mother. She has suffered enough because of your blatant disregard for the— ”

“Barty.” Elsie's soft hand on his arm quelled his temper. “There’s no time.”

He knew she was right—if she truly wished to go through with this, they couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

“Elizabeth,” His face was pale, his expression grave. “It isn’t too late; you do not have to do this.”

“I do.” Her eyes were steadfast and unafraid.

He nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. She reached up and cupped his cheek with her tiny hand, kissing him sweetly on the mouth.

“I love you, Barty Crouch.”

His throat ached as he gathered her into his arms.

“You are breaking my heart.”

With her face buried in his chest, Elsie allowed herself to cry for the first time since they had arrived at this wretched place. She could feel him trembling just as violently as she was, and she knew that he wouldn’t (or couldn’t) be the first to let go. Pulling away, she brushed her tears aside and took a deep breath, steadying herself.

Bartemius reached into his robes and produced two glass vials of Polyjuice potion and a small box containing a few of Elsie's wispy, grey-blonde hairs. He placed one in the first vial and the mixture turned a pale red, fizzing slightly. He motioned to Barty Jr. and his son plucked a fistful of his own hair and dropped it into the second vial, which immediately turned a grayish-green and thickened, taking on the color and consistency of lake mud.

Bartemius handed the thin red liquid to his son, who gave it a once-over before downing it all in one gulp. Immediately, his skin began to bubble and contort. His hair lengthened and leached into the dull color of his mother's. His legs and arms shrank but his fingers lengthened. Piano fingers, Bartemius’ mother used to say about Elsie.

When the transformation was complete, there were two Elizabeths in the tiny cell.

Reluctantly, Bartemius handed his wife the glass filled with the essence of their son. She raised her eyes to meet his, nearly fifty years of memories passing between them in a single instant. She squeezed his hand and he nodded, conveying to her a thousand apologies and unspoken declarations of love in return.

Lifting the vial to her lips, she took a drink, nearly choking on the foul potion. Her eyes watered and Bartemius grimaced. Steeling herself, she held her nose and consumed the rest of it, forcing herself to swallow. She gasped and clutched her stomach. Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor, gasping.

When it was finished, Elsie Crouch lay crumpled on the grimy stone, now in the body of their son. In the corner, Barty lay, staring at his father through the eyes of his mother. Bartemius felt sick.

Elsie got to her feet shakily and stumbled towards Bartemius. He stiffened as she walked towards him. There was space between them, but she didn’t breach it. Didn’t touch him with their son’s hands. Didn’t speak with his voice. She only looked at him with his eyes. _Her_ eyes.

Barty met her gaze resolutely and she was overcome with emotion. Her brave, sad, old Bartemius. She had never loved him more. He, who had sacrificed everything to give her and Barty a good life. She knew how harsh he was with himself; how he blamed himself for the collapse of their family.

“My sweet Barty.” She whispered. “I love you so much.”

With a jagged breath, he lifted a hand to Elsie’s face, stopping an inch short of touching her.

“I love you.” His words were garbled and thick with emotion. Words he had thought so many times and spoken far too few. He had never felt such pain. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, love. We had a good life together. I’ve never regretted it, not once. But it’s time to go now, darling.” She smiled sadly. “Take care of our son. I’ll wait for you.”

Turning from his wife, he looked at his son, still huddled in the corner.

“Come,” he said to him, but the boy was too weak to walk—Bartemius had no other choice but to pick him up and carry him. He was reminded of he and Elsie’s wedding night, when he had carried her across the threshold of the tiny cottage they had rented for the weekend.

But this was not Scotland, and his wife was not his wife. His son felt heavy in his arms though he couldn’t have weighed more than when he was ten years old. 

Stepping out of the cell, he summoned the Dementor floating at the end of the hallway. Barty turned away as it glided over to the bars—in part because he was afraid it would somehow sense the exchange, but more than that because he knew he wouldn’t survive the sight of Elizabeth on the other side of that door.

He heard the reverberating clang of iron and willed himself to keep walking. He could hear the whispers and screams of the other prisoners as he carried his son through the dark corridors.

Only three people in the world knew that the frail woman he carried was a convicted Death Eater. To the dementors, all was as it should be. They sensed one dying body entering the prison, and one dying body leaving it. The other prisoners saw Bartemius Crouch entering Azkaban with his sickly, grief-stricken wife clinging to him, and leaving with her in his arms.

Outside, the winter sky was a bright and painful contrast to the gloom of the prison. By the time he reached the shore, Bartemius’ arms trembled from physical exhaustion and heartbreak. He placed his son in the small wooden boat and stepped inside himself, swaying unsteadily.

The body of his wife looked up at him with something in those green eyes that Barty hadn’t seen there before. Something hard and…wrong. A darkness. He looked away sharply, turning his focus to the oars while simultaneously wiping an unwelcome tear from his eye. Wandlessly, he charmed the boat to row them back to the mainland.

As the island grew smaller, the air became warmer but, in fact, Bartemius Crouch would never be warm again. With one final glance at the black fortress, he left the love of his life behind forever. And he would carry that coldness inside of him for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so sad to write. You all know that I have a soft spot for Barty Sr. and this just broke my heart for him. I can't even imagine how painful it must have been for him to know exactly what kind of place he was leaving Elsie in, but going through with it because it was what she wanted. Oof, my heart! 
> 
> Anyway, stand by for chapter 18 in approximately one minute! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFeet xX


	18. Niamh

_Cold. It was so cold. An empty, bleak light filtered in through the tiny window. She was too short to see out of it, but it wouldn’t have mattered even if she could—she was too weak to stand._

_A magpie was twittering softly outside. Or maybe it was just the wind._

* * *

Elsie Crouch was losing her sanity—she could feel it. More and more often she would regain consciousness to find that hours had passed without her realizing it. She would slip in and out of flashbacks, and it had become increasingly difficult to determine what was real and what was only in her mind. She wouldn’t have had any sense of time at all if it weren’t for the Polyjuice potion. She kept the vials under her grimy mattress, taking the tiniest sip every few minutes. The dementors wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference, of course, but there was a man across the hall that could see into her cell, and all this would be for nothing if anyone found out what she and Barty had done.

Azkaban was more horrifying than she could have ever imagined. In a way, this brought her a strange sense of relief—the fact that she was here meant that her son was not, and she would much rather be deteriorating in prison than sitting at home with her crushing guilt and grief; every morning waking up to the knowledge that he was suffering; waiting out a life sentence in this wicked place.

Yes, as terrible as it was, she would gladly endure it for the sake of saving her sweet boy.

* * *

_She tried to think of that sweet boy—happy thoughts, not thoughts of him imprisoned where she was now sitting._

_It was too cold. Her eyelashes, wet with tears and the endless damp, were frozen together, forming a painful, spiky mass that she had to pry apart every morning. The combination of freezing sea spray and the hair-raising, unholy guards created a bitter chill so unnatural it was unlike anything she had ever experienced. She had long since given up on trying to perform any magic—it seemed the Dementors had drained every last drop from her, even her ability to produce a wandless fire, which she had once been so talented at._

* * *

She missed her fireplace. It was beautiful—made of ornate, carved obsidian. She loved to sit in front of it, under a cozy red blanket, and knit. In the evenings, when he wasn’t working late at the Ministry, Bartemius would join her. They’d sit, side by side, on the sofa: he with a glass of brandy and The Daily Prophet, and she with her Witch Weekly magazine. He teased her for reading such “drivel,” but he knew the answer to every crossword clue, including the ones about vanity potions and celebrity gossip.

Poor Barty couldn’t sit still for ten minutes without falling asleep (no doubt due to the fact that he never got more than five hours on any given night,) but Elsie was no better. She would often find herself waking up, slumped over on his shoulder, only to discover that it was past midnight. This almost certainly guaranteed that she would have a terrible crick in her neck come morning, but she loved those accidental, unintentional moments with him; loved seeing his ordinarily worry-lined face so peaceful, reading glasses slipping off the end of his nose.

She would gently shake him awake and they would sit together in silence, listening to the crackling fire. After a few minutes, he would take her hand and they would stumble sleepily upstairs, leaving behind the familiar sound of crickets chirping softly outside.

* * *

_A low moan echoed through the dark, ghostly halls. She wasn’t sure if it came from her. She tried to recall the memory of her warm fireplace, but it was so cold._

* * *

One would think she would be used to the cold—she was always cold. Bartemius was the warm one. Like a werewolf, she used to tell him. He would frown at the comparison and give her a stern look when she put her ice-cold feet on him, but then he would grin and wrap his arms around her. She suspected that he secretly liked it—it made him feel useful. _She_ made him feel useful.

“Do not put those feet on me,” he would tell her, right before she got into bed and put those feet on him, curling into his arms and laying her head on his chest. He would roll his eyes and extinguish the lamp before pulling her close and settling into the comfortable mattress.

* * *

_A beetle crawled out of the filthy mattress, its pincers clicking. She stepped on it, cringing at the sickening crunch it made, and used her bare foot to nudge it into the pile of dirt and bugs in the corner. Every few days, when the pile got too big, she would sweep it underneath the cell door, a little at a time. She would dip her hands into the shallow puddle that collected near the window in an attempt to wash them. The rancid water left them slimy and sour-smelling, but having a routine—having order—was necessary._

* * *

Order was important to Bartemius. He was a firm believer in the philosophy that everything had its place and should _stay_ in that place. This was an ideal he tried very hard to impress upon their son, who had been a human tornado from the moment he could walk. Winky, their house-elf, would laugh and shake her head at the sight of his room in disarray, saying “Young master Barty, you is making less of a mess if you is _trying_ to destroy the house!”

In fact, Barty Jr. was one of the reasons the Crouch’s had a house-elf in the first place. Bartemius was against having an elf on principle, although his family (and Elsie’s) had owned them for generations. When his grandmother died, he was to inherit Winky, but he maintained that their family did not need an elf, and were perfectly capable of keeping their own home in order.

He finally gave in after a fair amount of convincing from Elsie, and he was very glad he did—she was a huge help, right from the start. One afternoon, he had come home from work to find Barty Jr. (who had just turned three) in the bathtub—so dirty that the water was completely brown—and Elsie, in the living room trying to scrub the mud out of their brand-new Bicorn hide sofa.

She was frustrated—nearly in tears—but Winky had their sofa looking spotless in minutes, and very sweetly helped Elsie wash out the dirt that was still stubbornly clinging to her hair. Barry’s magic was already starting to manifest itself, and he had managed to enchant the mud with some kind of sticking charm. It was no trouble for Winky, though. She ran her long, spindly fingers through Elsie’s blonde curls and the mud had simply melted away.

* * *

_An icy gust of wind blew her hair into her face, twisting and matting it further. She tried to brush through the tangles with her fingers but it broke off in her hands. It was brittle; straw-like, just like her son’s. Perhaps, somehow, her sacrifice would make him realize how much she and Bartemius loved him. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for him to renounce He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named; for him to return to the sweet boy he had once been._

* * *

Barty _had_ been sweet when he was a boy, and so bright. He’d adored his father. He used to tell everyone that when he grew up he was going to be the Minister for Magic, “just like father!” Elsie would gently remind him that Bartemius was _not_ the Minister and he would reply, “Yeah, not _yet_.”

Bartemius loved their son very much, although he didn’t tell him as often as Elsie would have liked. When Barty came home with 12 O.W.L.s, her husband positively swelled with pride, clapping him on the back and insisting that they buy him a new racing broom for Christmas. He told anyone who would listen how clever their son was; what a promising career he had ahead of him. He still expected him to go into the Ministry, though Barty had long abandoned his desire to follow in his father’s footsteps.

She remembered Christmas mornings from when he was a boy. He loved bouncing into her and Barty’s bed before the sun had risen, and pulling them downstairs to open gifts. She’d kept a photo of him on her bedside table from the Christmas before he turned nine. He was holding a toy wand and grinning in his red and white pajamas, sandy brown hair sticking up in all directions. He’d been trying to turn his chocolate frog into a galleon, and Bartemius had laughed so hard his face turned red. She had another picture from that day, too, tucked into one of their family albums. The two of them were sitting on the couch; Barty was in his father’s lap, pretending very earnestly to read The Daily Prophet, and Bartemius, knowing full well that their son couldn’t read yet, was reading bits and pieces of the articles out loud for Barty to hear. (“Ah, a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts, maybe this one will stick,” “Hmm, tighter restrictions on dragon breeding, yes, I was wondering when they’d implement that,” “Oh, for Merlin's sake, they've made Rita Skeeter a senior writer at The Prophet, what on earth was Cuffe thinking?”) Elsie's heart could have burst from how adorable they were together.

But, as the years went by, the two of them grew apart. When he was little, Barty was always asking his father to play games with him or tell him stories, but, by his second year at Hogwarts, he had stopped asking when he would be home or if they could go to Diagon Alley for the weekend. His disappointment was evident, though, and Elsie was constantly trying to run interference between them: _“Can’t you take the weekend off?”_ “He’s very busy with work, sweetheart,” _“You need to spend more time with your son,”_ “He works very hard to provide for us,” _“Please try to come home early for Barty’s birthday,”_ “Don’t talk about your father like that, he’s doing the best he can.”

It was exhausting and maddening and, ultimately, to no avail. Barty had grown bitter and angry towards his father. By the time he was 16, he didn’t even attempt to disguise his apathy. At Elsie’s urging, Bartemius made a concerted effort to spend time with him over summers and holidays, even taking a few weekends and evenings off. He offered to take him to the Quidditch World Cup (“Can’t, I’m going with my friends.”) and Diagon Alley (“Why, so you can buy me an ice cream and a Puddlemere United poster? I’m not ten anymore, father.”) Despite his genuine attempt to repair things, it was just too late, and their relationship only seemed to worsen.

Bartemius was troubled by their son’s behavior. He was mouthier than usual—even aggressive—and his friends from Hogwarts were questionable at best. Elsie insisted it was just a phase—he would graduate and meet a nice girl, settle down and start a family and a career.

She wasn’t as certain, though, after Bartemius found a book on dark magic in their son’s room. He said it was for school—a Defense Against the Dark Arts essay—but he was so angry when his father confronted him about it. His face turned a deep red and he’d yelled at his father to stay out of his room; that he was never home anyway, so why did he care? Bartemius had roared that whatever went on under his roof was his business, and this had started a shouting match that went on for nearly an hour, leaving Elsie in tears and with a horrible stomachache.

* * *

_She was lying on her stomach, on the stone floor. It helped with the vertigo and, truthfully, she didn’t have the energy to move. She traced her name in the dirt: “Elizabeth Niamh Crouch.”_

* * *

Barty Jr. was named for his father, but the similarities between the two of them ended there. They were opposites in every sense of the word. Bartemius valued order and law, whereas their son was rebellious; careless. Bartemius was staunch and iron in his resolve against the Dark Arts, while their son was drawn to them.

Bartemius hated the Death Eaters.

And their son had become one.

* * *

_“I’ve still got my innocence!” Roared the man across the hall, his voice gravelly and rough. “You can take everything else away, but not that! I want my trial, you bastards! WHEN’S MY TRIAL, CROUCH?”_

* * *

After her son’s trial, Elsie couldn’t function. She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, cried for days on end. She became withdrawn and isolated. Abigail and Mafalda and Dolores became distant memories—she rarely left the house anymore and her health deteriorated quickly. She had always been thin, but she soon became sickly looking—bony and emaciated. When she _did_ sleep, she had nightmares about their son—visions of him torturing Frank and Alice, or of him surrounded by those terrifying, soul-sucking things, screaming for her to help him. More often than not, she woke up screaming herself.

Elsie spent her days in a dreamlike state, alternated with bursts of panic and depression. She sometimes brewed Draught of Peace, on particularly difficult days, and it left her immobile on the sofa, disoriented and groggy; in that hazy place between awake and asleep. It was better than the nightmares, but not much. Visions of Barty’s trial would play over and over again in her mind, as though living through it once hadn’t been traumatic enough.

Her sweet boy chained to that chair in the middle of the court, crying for her and screaming at his father. Seeing him like that, pale and helpless and in between those _criminals_ …she couldn’t bear it.

Then his sentence. _Life in Azkaban_.

For a split second, she couldn’t comprehend what it meant. Then she saw the look on Bartemius’ face and, with a sickening jolt, understood with a burst of horror that her baby was gone forever. It was the blackest moment of her life and she thought she would explode from the pain until finally, blessedly, she had fainted.

Bartemius had lost both of them that day—his wife and his son—as well as any ambition he ever had of becoming Minister. Everything he had believed in and worked so hard for and devoted his entire life to—both professional and personal—had been destroyed in an instant.

He grieved in his own way, very differently from her. If he had been dedicated to the Ministry before their son’s trial, he was obsessive about it now. He Disapparated before the sun rose and often wasn’t home until one or two in the morning. Gone were their evenings on the couch with his arms around her and her head on his shoulder. When he _was_ home, he could barely look at her—he was engulfed with guilt and the thought that she blamed him for what happened to their son. And perhaps she had, secretly. But she missed him all the same—she missed his smell of cologne and ink; missed the way he kissed her on the cheek when he got home from work; missed the way he looked at her before she was fragile and weak.

It was as if even being around her was painful for him. He hated feeling like he’d done this to her. The only time he spoke to her as he had before all this was when he thought she couldn’t hear him—when she slept. She rarely did anymore, but she had taken to pretending; shutting her eyes quickly when she heard the front door open and waiting for him to come to bed, just to hear his voice.

Sometimes she would arrange herself on the couch so he would see her when he first came in. She would listen to the sound of his briefcase plunking onto the floor; his deep, weary sigh. She would feel the couch cushion give as he sat down beside her; his gentle hands combing through her wispy grey hair; his warm lips pressed to her cold forehead. Other times, she would stay in the bed, where she had often lain all day. It was on these nights that he would lay beside her, stroking her cheek with a heartrending sweetness. He would whisper to her all the things he couldn’t say when he thought her to be awake, telling her how sorry he was, how much he loved her, that he regretted the loss of their son so much he felt like he might die.

One night she had opened her eyes and looked up at him. Her heart broke when she saw the tears in his eyes—tears for her and their son and this life that had been fractured beyond repair.

“Barty…”

She reached for him, but he was already gone, lacing his shoes up and gathering his briefcase, his face an emotionless mask. She didn’t see him again for two days, but, when he came home on Saturday night, he climbed into bed and kissed her softly on the side of the mouth. They never spoke of it again and she loved him both for it and in spite of it.

It was just his way.

* * *

_Elsie reached for her husband but she was suddenly back in her cell, confused and touching only the slick metal bars. Her cozy bed and warm fire and sweet Bartemius were gone. The grey light made everything seem even lonelier. The man across the hall looked at her with pity as her heart broke for the thousandth time._

* * *

Heartbroken isn’t a strong enough word to describe what Elsie felt when she learned about her son’s crimes. At first, she hadn’t believed it. Her sweet boy—the same boy who had spent all of his birthday money to buy her a pair of red lace-up shoes to match her favorite dress robes? There must have been a mistake, she’d thought. He couldn’t have.

But it wasn’t a mistake.

Bartemius told her what he’d done to those poor Aurors—and they had a son, too. A son who would now be parentless because of _her_ son.

Then she was angry—so angry she felt as though she would burst into flame. Angry at Barty for committing these inconceivable crimes. Angry at Bartemius for sending him to that awful place. And, then, more than anything, angry at herself. She was his _mother_. How could she have missed this? 

The night after his trial she had fallen completely to pieces. She’d collapsed on the floor, sobbing, unable to move or breathe. Bartemius held her as she cried and all she could say, over and over again, was “How could we let this happen?” She felt the terrible burden of responsibility licking at her feet like bluebell flames. Then, quite suddenly, all of the anger was gone and she could feel only sadness. The deepest, most profound sadness she had ever experienced.

When the Healers at St. Mungo’s told her that she had two months to live, she knew what they had to do.

Bartemius dismissed it out of hand at first. Told her absolutely not, it was out of the question, that even if he was willing to break the law it would be impossible. Then, one night, two weeks later, he had come home bearing the ingredients to brew Polyjuice Potion and a quiet plan.

Elsie understood, in that moment, the depth of his love for her. For him to agree to this—he was abandoning every ideal and belief that he had dutifully upheld for more than twenty years. The sadness etched into his face as he handed her the jar of lacewing flies had devastated her, and she knew he was giving her the only thing he had left to give; fulfilling her one last request.

A going-away gift.

She had burst into tears—tears of relief, but also of mourning. She was saying goodbye to the only man she’d ever loved, with the full understanding that she would never again feel the warm breath of love on her neck as he kissed her; never spend another evening curled sleepily beside him; never fall into his arms at the end of a long day.

She was losing him forever.

He had begged her to reconsider; promising that he would take a leave of absence, spend every moment with her. She loved him for it, but couldn’t let him do it.

How could she leave him by himself, knowing he would have no one but Winky to care for him after she was gone? She would be dead in a matter of weeks, and their son would die in Azkaban, never having the chance to reconcile with his father. And Bartemius. Her sweet Bartemius would be all alone.

No, she couldn’t bear it.

She wouldn’t.

There may not have been any hope for her, but there was hope for her boys. They had loved each other once, and she _knew_ that they could love each other again.

* * *

_The rattling cough hurt her chest. Her throat was raw and torn._

_In the midst of this agony, Elsie Crouch smiled. She was saving her sweet boys._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, funny story about this chapter. Back in February, I had this brilliant idea for an anthology fanfiction where each chapter was from a different perspective of someone who had been in Azkaban. I had this big long list of characters that I wanted to do (Sirius, Bellatrix, Barty, Morfin, Hagrid, Mrs. Crouch, etc.) I was at church one Sunday (February 23rd, to be exact, which is why you'll see the number 23 pop up so much if you look closely), and I was like "Which character can I start with that won't be super difficult? Ooh, I know, I'll start with Mrs. Crouch! That won't be too hard!" Cut to 20 minutes later and I'm suddenly totally obsessed with the Crouch family and rereading Goblet of Fire and bookmarking 50 million websites and wikipedia pages and tumblr posts.
> 
> It's just funny to me because this chapter was the one that started it all. I remember so clearly writing it for the first time and it just sort of took on a life of its own. I didn't set out intending for it to be some grand, romantic love story between Barty and Elsie, but the more I wrote, the more that's what it became. 
> 
> Obviously, this is not the world's most popular pairing, but I think their story is a testament to how powerful love can be. Elsie loved her son so much that she was willing to sacrifice her life to save him, and Bartemius loved her so much that he went against literally everything he believed in and broke his own heart in the process.
> 
> Anyway, sorry, I'm babbling, I just wanted to explain a little bit of why this chapter has such a special place in my heart. 
> 
> Thank you so so much for reading, and I'll see you on December 7th for chapter 19! I can't believe we're getting so close to the end!
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFeet xX


	19. Unforgivable

When Barty Crouch Jr. came to, he felt like he’d been run over by the Knight Bus. Every part of his body ached and he could barely move. Even his eyes protested as he opened them and looked around. Slowly, the room came into focus: Quidditch posters, Chocolate Frog Cards, all of his old toys and books.

_He was home._

It was ironic—almost perverse—that he was back in his childhood bedroom. He tried to laugh, but all he could manage was a weak cough.

Someone stirred beside him, asleep in one of the stiff, straight-backed dining room chairs that always reminded him of uncomfortable family dinners. Barty watched as his father opened his eyes slowly and groaned, running a hand over his face. He had a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin and he looked more unkempt than Barty had ever seen him.

“Father.” He rasped.

“You’re awake.” Bartemius cleared his throat and straightened his rumpled tie. His suit was filthy, and Barty could smell the stench of Azkaban on him.

“Where’s Mother?”

Bartemius looked at him sharply.

“You don’t remember?”

Barty shook his head but paused.

“Azkaban. She and you...she took a potion...you carried me out...we went in a boat…but not with her.”

“Your mother gave her life for yours.” Bartemius clenched his jaw. “She begged me to free you. She was constantly ill—couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. She was thinner than you are now. She cried every day.”

“So you did it,” Barty said, looking almost impressed. “You got me out.”

“How could I refuse her?” He asked quietly. “After all she had sacrificed for me—for this family—” He swallowed the painful lump in his throat. “I could not undo what had been done, but I could give her the only thing I had left in my power to retrieve.”

“Me.”

Bartemius nodded and looked at his son. Ashen and gaunt, the boy still looked so much like Elizabeth. He laid a hand on Barty’s forehead. His skin was clammy and feverish. He was so young…his blonde hair and freckles even more pronounced when contrasted against his sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Bartemius felt a rush of affection for him.

“I’m…sorry, Barty.” He sighed heavily. “I have made so many mistakes for which I have no excuse. I spent far too much time at the office, and far too little with you—with your mother. She would have been 40 this year, you know.” He looked down at his wedding band. “She loved you more than anything. More than me, I suspect, although I can’t blame her for that. She was heartbroken when you…when she heard what happened. We both were. But you’re home now. Winky will look after you when I am unable to be here, and I...had hoped the two of us could try again—start over. You are still my son.”

“I am _not_ your son,” Barty whispered, “And you are not my father. The Dark Lord is my father. And he _will_ rise again, whether I am in this house or in Azkaban or anywhere on the planet. But I remained faithful. I never once denounced him like those cowards who feared prison. He will rise again. And when he does, he will find me. And when he finds me…” Barty grinned, showing his rotten teeth, “nothing will be able to stop us.”

Bartemius felt an icy chill sweep through his veins. The boy was insane. There wasn’t an ounce of remorse in him and he had condemned Elizabeth to die in the worst place imaginable. 

As Barty laughed behind him, Bartemius ran from the room and locked the door behind him.

His breathing was ragged, but one thought echoed clearly in his mind: he had to get her out. The exchange had worked once—there was no evidence to suggest that it would not work a second time. And he still had plenty of Polyjuice Potion. He would switch them back, put things right, bring Elizabeth home where she should have been all along. And she would understand—of course she would. When he told her that he tried to speak with Barty—tried to talk sense into him—and was met with an even greater fervor for the Dark Arts, she would realize that there was nothing to be done and she would stay with him where she would be safe and he could look after her.

_“Incendio.”_ A fire sprang to life in the grate. Reaching into the black ceramic vase on the mantle, he took a handful of Floo Powder and threw it into the flames. “Mafalda Hopkirk.”

The mousy-haired woman jumped when his head appeared in her fire, nearly spilling her bottle of ink.

“Oh, Barty, my goodness—you scared me!”

“Apologies.” He said shortly, feeling a prevailing sense of urgency. “Listen, Mafalda, I—I need a favor.”

“Of course, love, what is it?”

“This is highly irregular, I understand, but I must make one final visit to Azkaban. I—there is something I must…ask my son—about his crimes…extremely important…” He could feel himself rambling and took a deep breath to steady himself.

Mafalda was silent for a moment and he could feel himself becoming impatient. He fought to keep his voice calm as he fixed her with the most serious look he could muster.

“Please, Mafalda, I implore you. I have lost everything. If not for me, please do this for Elizabeth.”

Mafalda pressed her fingers against her lips.

“They haven’t told you.” She whispered.

He froze.

“Told me what?” His lips felt cold; they were barely moving.

“Barty, I…” her voice shook.

“For heaven’s sake, told me what, Mafalda?” He demanded.

She shook her head and Bartemius realized with dismay that there were tears in her eyes.

“We received the notice this morning. From Azkaban. Barty didn’t…he didn’t make it through the night. I…I’m so sorry.”

Bartemius was suddenly aware of a faint buzzing in his ears as he struggled to understand what this meant. Barty hadn’t survived the night…? But Barty was here, at home… _Elsie_ was in his place, bearing his name and appearance.

The room was spinning around him.

“This—cannot be—” he said haltingly. “No—”

“I’m so sorry.” She said again. “I know how hard this has been on you and Elsie.” At the mention of her name, Barty jerked. “I’d like to see her; do you think I could come by?”

“She is—ill—” Bartemius said, compulsively closing his hand around a burning ember.

Mafalda looked at him sadly.

“Of course. Another time, then.”

Nodding curtly, he pulled his head from the fire and sat numbly on the hearth. He looked around at the room, which somehow looked different than it had five minutes ago. Colder.

Everywhere he looked, he saw her. In the crocheted afghan on the sofa, the lime green fuzzy slippers beside the stairs, the lonely strand of hair laying atop the coffee table.

This could not be. His mind searched for any possible explanation. Perhaps Mafalda was mistaken. Or—the recurring thought he had entertained so often since the news about their son—this must be a dream. A nightmare.

But the tile was too cold; the air too crisp. This was not a dream.

Bartemius stood and stumbled away from the fireplace, placing a hand on the back of the couch to keep himself from collapsing. He looked at the calendar on the wall, still covered in her messy cursive. A yellow heart was drawn around the day’s date—February 23rd.

Today was their anniversary.

For the longest time, he stood, staring at the heart, unable to comprehend this great and terrible loss. He felt empty; hollowed out. Like someone had opened him up and scooped out everything of value, leaving behind only meaningless organs.

She was gone. His sweet Elsie. His kind, beautiful, selfless Elsie who had seen the good in everyone, including himself.

He still remembered the first day he’d seen her in Madam Malkin’s. He'd pretended not to notice, even to himself, but he recalled the way his stomach had jolted when she’d smiled at him, up on that platform getting measured for new robes.

He never would have imagined that she'd be the same girl he would marry five years later—the same girl who could stop his heart with a single kiss; a single touch.

Something about her simply… _fit_ with him. Like they were two pieces of a puzzle, made to interlock. Like he was directionless without her. Untethered. Floating aimlessly in the wind.

And now, with her death, she had taken half of him with her. His better half. He often used that bit at Ministry galas or other social functions— “Ah, here she is! Have you met my wife? This is Elizabeth, my better half.” It was a line—a witticism that earned him smattered laughter from the women and nods of agreement from the men—but it was every bit the truth. Elsie had balanced him in every way. There were times during his early years at the Ministry when he would return home at the end of a long, grueling day feeling ill-tempered and ready to lash out at the smallest inconvenience, but one look at her with her bare feet and sparkling green eyes immediately softened him. She would waltz into the sitting room and kiss him softly on the lips, wrapping her arms around his neck and smiling. He could never stay cross for long.

Gods, he loved her so much. And now she was dead.

He looked at the sofa where she'd spent so many evenings snuggled up beside him. He couldn’t bring himself to sit there without her, so he sank down into the red armchair instead. It smelled like her. Pressing his nose into it, he inhaled the familiar, comforting scent: citrus, linen, vanilla. A tear dripped off the end of his nose and disappeared into the fabric.

His chest throbbed painfully. Was it possible to die of a broken heart?

He considered, briefly, allowing himself some of Elsie’s Dreamless Sleep Potion, but he knew he could not. He still had a son to contend with and he could not afford to succumb to his grief, no matter how tempting the prospect.

Instead, he lay there in her chair for hours, watching as the sun sank lower and lower, until the room was slowly leached of light. He was still there when the official notice arrived.

_Mr. and Mrs. Bartemius Crouch:_

_It is with deep sympathy that I write to inform you that Bartemius Crouch Jr. died yesterday evening, between the hours of ten and eleven pm, in Azkaban prison. His cause of death has been recorded as heart failure._ _Because Mr. Crouch was serving a life sentence, his body will be buried outside the walls, in the prison graveyard. However, at this time, you may contact the Ministry and file a request to claim his body, should you wish to make other arrangements. If we do not hear from you within the designated number of days (7), we will proceed with the customary burial measures._ _Once again, the Ministry offers our heartfelt condolences and sincere wishes that you and your family are well._

_Best regards,_

_Marion Shaw_

_Council of Magical Law_

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_Ministry of Magic_

_Heart failure._ Bartemius felt bile rise in his throat. What must her last days have been like? An endless barrage of horror and pain. And now…even in death, her body buried beside the prison…entombed forever in the frozen, salt-poisoned earth.

Bartemius looked at the parchment bearing his son’s name and his wife’s fate, and he fell to the floor, his chest heaving with sobs.

How could he have allowed this to happen? He should have refused her—made her see reason. For him to agree to this plan at all had been unconscionable, and what good had it done? Any hope he’d had of Barty coming to his senses was gone, and his sweet Elsie along with it.

He had failed her.

This thought, more than any other, was what kept him on his knees as hot, silent tears fell from his eyes.

How long he laid there on the floor he couldn’t say, but, slowly, his breathing had calmed and he was able to push himself to his feet. His knees nearly buckled, but he placed a hand on the wall to stabilize himself and made his way down the hall to Barty’s room.

There was a small blue sign stuck to the outside of the door: _“Do not enter without the express permission of Bartemius Crouch Jr.”_

He was unsteady and weak but his resolve was more ironclad than ever. He knew what he had to do.

Unlocking the door, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

His heart sank at the sight of his sleeping son, but he had no choice. For his own safety—for the safety of the entire Wizarding community—he had to do it.

Bartemius’ hand shook as he pointed his wand at his son. His cheek twitched as a tear rolled down it.

_“Imperius.”_

* * *

_Twelve years later_

Everything was murky and distorted; the room spun sickeningly, the moving poster of Ludo in his Wimbourne Wasps uniform seemed to mock him, and the reinforced bars on the window leered.

Bartemius’ thoughts slid in and out of focus. He was dizzy and nauseated; one moment aware of his surroundings, the next surrendering to some long-past memory…a happier time.

When he was lucid, he struggled to piece everything together. He tried to recall every detail of what led him to this moment. Sometimes it was jumbled and confusing, and other times he could remember with piercing clarity.

He closed his eyes, making a concerted effort to focus his thoughts; to remember that night.

_It was late…he had been working…preparations for the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts…_

_His head was pounding and he laid his quill aside and rubbed his temples. He looked up at the clock on the mantle. Nearly midnight. He glanced, as he so often did, at the black and white photograph of Elsie on his desk. She was nineteen—the year before she had Barty, and her hair was short; the ends curled under, with bangs that only served to accentuate her youth—and her lips were upturned in a happy smile. She was beautiful._

Beautiful. That’s what they said about her funeral. They—Dolores, Mafalda, and Abigail. Rita hadn’t come, citing some reason he couldn’t remember, but he suspected that she was nearly as devastated as he was, and couldn’t stand the sight of a headstone bearing her name.

He understood the sentiment. His chest tightened every time he looked at it— “Elizabeth Niamh Crouch: Beloved Wife and Mother.”

_It was a quiet affair, her burial. Only the girls and Ludo had come, as well as himself and Winky, and it the air itself seemed to grieve; pressing in on them heavily as though it, too, was full of sadness. No one but he and Winky had known that the grave was empty, but, at times, even Bartemius found himself believing the lie. He had parroted the same story so many times that it had begun to creep into his own mind like an infectious fog. Then, with an inevitable wave of heartache, he would remember where Elsie really was: buried beside the North Sea, her bones being eaten away at by the salt and sea._

He shuddered, shaking his head forcibly as though it would help clear his mind.

_Fight it, Bartemius, fight it._

But he couldn’t.

It was maddening, being unable to control his thoughts. Not only was he a prisoner in his own home, but now his own body as well? It was humiliating. A complete loss of dignity. And even worse was knowing that his son was the reason for all of it.

Perhaps he deserved it. After all, had he not used this very same curse on his own son? A younger Bartemius—even one from a year ago—would be appalled. How could he possibly justify the things he had done? Facilitating a prison break, Obliviating poor Bertha, performing an Unforgivable Curse…

Unforgivable. The irony of the word did not escape him. What he had done; what he had allowed himself to become…

_Unforgivable._

When the lock clicked open, Bartemius was pulled from his memories and back into the present with the creak of the door hinges. He knew the routine by now: a few bites of mush forced down his throat, his restraints checked, perhaps the Cruciatus Curse for good measure. Every night the same.

Except for tonight.

He was expecting Pettigrew, but it was Barty who walked through the door instead.

The boy seemed…healthy wasn’t exactly the word, but he looked better. His face was still rather pale—he hadn’t seen sunlight in twelve years. His hair had grown a bit, but was still the same shade of blonde as before. Bartemius realized with a pang that he missed his son.

Barty glanced at his father and Bartemius thought perhaps he could see a glimmer of…what? Remorse? Regret? Love? But then it faded just as quickly as it had come, and was replaced by the same cold indifferent eyes he’d seen that day in Azkaban.

Was there any good left in him at all?

“Barty.” His voice was thick and gravelly—it had been months since he’d spoken aloud.

His son whirled around, startled, a glimmer of fear in his eyes. Looking at his father in alarm, he summoned Pettigrew.

“Is he supposed to be doing that? Talking, I mean?”

Pettigrew said something, too indistinct for Bartemius to hear, but the effort it had taken for him to speak had exhausted him, and, unable to fight it any longer, he fell back into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Days and weeks passed like sand slipping through his fingers. When Bartemius was awake, his throat was swollen and his head ached fiercely. He almost welcomed the twilight sleep that kept him unconscious; immobile.

He didn’t see much of his son anymore, or, blessedly, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. In the beginning, they would drag him from his bed and into the sitting room, lifting the Imperius Curse and forcing him onto his knees as they tortured him for information about the Ministry—details regarding the Triwizard tournament, the schools that would be involved, what other Ministry officials would be present at the tasks.

It was deliberately slow and excruciating and it shamed him to admit that he looked forward to the moment in which he would be Imperiused once again.

_He was a failure. His wife, his son, the entire Ministry…he had failed them all. Even Winky._

Winky. He was immeasurably grateful that the poor elf was not here to see him like this. She had suffered nearly as much as he had, and the thought of what might be happening to her if she had stayed was too terrible to dwell on. Thank God she was elsewhere. This was the only good to come of his rash decision to free her. He had regretted his actions at the Cup—he wasn’t thinking; he’d been paralyzed with fear. What would have happened if Barty hadn’t been lying stunned in the bushes, unconscious beneath the invisibility cloak for him to find? Of course, it didn’t matter now. The result was still the same—his son had been reunited with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Bartemius was now a prisoner in his own home.

Unforgivable.

_How could he have let this happen? His entire career spent in dedication to the law, only for this to be the outcome—held captive at the hands of his own son, who had now become the very thing he fought against for so many years. It was almost humorous, this reversal of roles: Bartemius the child, dependent on his son for everything, and Barty the parent, neglecting his father just as his father had neglected him. This was his penance._

The thoughts swirled feverishly; round and round in his mind as he lay, unable to move, in his son’s old room. He was no longer shackled to the bed as he had been in the beginning, but it no longer made a difference. Even if he hadn’t been under the Imperius Curse, he knew, as did his captors, that he was far too weak—far too tired—to attempt any kind of escape.

He was all but useless now: a bedridden lump of meat with no purpose at all other than to stare vacantly into the distance, slack and drooling and able to do nothing but imagine the atrocities being plotted just outside his door.

He burned with anger at the thought of these foul bastards in his house— _Elsie’s_ house—sitting where she sat, touching what she’d touched. Dishonoring her memory. It was this very anger that gave him the strength he needed to concentrate his mind and pull himself back to the present. During times like these, he could hear snatches of conversations taking place in the sitting room—whispered plans and murmured reports.

From what little he’d been able to gather, his son was now an important element of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s contrivance to kill Harry Potter. Barty was at Hogwarts, impersonating an unnamed professor who was now likely dead or worse.

Bartemius himself was thought ill—meant to be recuperating at home. He _was_ ill, of course, but the idea that he was somehow recovering—regaining stamina—could not be further from the truth.

_Why had no one come to visit? Or written, at the very least? Did they not think it suspicious? Surely someone was concerned—if not Bardolph or Fudge, then one of the girls. Had everyone forgotten him? Or were they just indifferent? Had they all realized, after Elsie’s death, that she was the one they truly cared about and he had simply been tolerated? Put up with, only for her sake?_

Logically, he knew his captors were keeping everyone away from him—knew that Mafalda and Abigail (and even Rita Skeeter, much as they despised one another) would never have let this happen without doing something. They had very likely tried to come by; to check on him and offer to cook and invite him for tea, as they had after Elizabeth’s funeral. Who knows what had been done to them by Pettigrew and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and presumably even his son. Perhaps they were walking around Confunded or Obliviated or Imperiused, no better off than he was. Logically, he knew they hadn’t abandoned him.

But still, in these lonely and cheerless moments, he couldn’t help but wonder.

The only letters he’d had were from Percy Weasley, who was now heading the Department of International Magical Cooperation in his absence. Bartemius knew the young man to be perfectly capable, but even so... Competent though he was, to shoulder the responsibility of an entire division would be difficult for any assistant to handle, let alone one fresh out of Hogwarts.

These days, however, the Ministry was the last thing on his mind—IMC would be fine without him and he could not spare the brainpower it took to worry about Weasley when it was all he could do to keep himself alert and focused with each passing second.

The Imperius Curse was effective—unforgivable for a reason—and even more effective when performed by a wizard as magically powerful as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

True to the nature of the curse, it produced an unearthly feeling of calm—serenity, even. But, relaxed as he may be, he was never oblivious to what was happening. He tried sometimes—tried to go away into his mind so he could be unaware—but it was as if they wanted him to know that he was powerless against them; that they could make him do anything they wanted, even the most disgusting, vile acts that he would have no choice but to comply with.

Bartemius rebelled in the small, underhanded ways he was able to—withholding information, spilling porridge on the floor, purposefully misspelling the instructions he was being forced to write and send in. But it never amounted to anything, and only earned him punishments for his trouble.

In the beginning, he tried coding his letters to Weasley using a cipher. The boy was intelligent and Bartemius was sure he would have understood the message, but his plan was uncovered before the missives could be sent, and he was rewarded with an agonizingly long session with the Cruciatus Curse. As a result of this, his hands had developed a permanent tremor and they shook constantly, making it nearly impossible to perform even the simplest of tasks, such as eating and signing his name.

But, despite the constant torment, the fact that he was able to remember anything at all was heartening. At first, he’d been unconscious for days—even weeks—on end. When he finally woke in that tiny bed, beside the dragon alarm clock and the lamp shaped like a beater’s bat, he was delirious and confused; unable to put his disorganized thoughts into any kind of conceivable order.

Slowly, however, he had begun to resist the Imperius Curse, just as Barty had done over the last twelve years. But, unlike his son, he was much older and much more tired. It hadn’t even been a year and already he could feel his mind folding in on itself. He was under constant surveillance, but he knew with bone-chilling certainty that he did not have much longer before succumbing to the dark abyss of insanity from which it would be impossible to return.

On many days, he felt this might be a relief. Giving in would be effortless. To simply let go…to relinquish this reality…it would be so easy.

 _“You could be with Elizabeth again,”_ the voice whispered to him, _“you could be free of this suffering.”_

Moments like these were the ones that tested his resolve the most. The temptation to give in to his exhaustion and be free.

His decline was unmistakable. The few times he’d been able to glimpse his reflection in a mirror, he didn’t even recognize himself. His skin was sallow and papery; his eyes dull and expressionless. He looked like his father in the weeks before his death. And he was so tired. Every day he withstood the curse took more and more out of him.

But Bartemius Crouch had been fighting dark forces for nearly his entire life, and, despite his desire for release, the deep-rooted sense of good in him would not allow him to give in. _Elsie_ would not allow him to give in.

He knew the scandal it would cause. He knew what it would do to the Ministry. He knew his reputation would be ruined forever. But he also knew he must rectify this awful mistake that he had so foolishly allowed.

He had to fight. And fighting meant doing something he should have done long ago.

It was time to go to Dumbledore.

* * *

_May 27 th, 1995_

_How many days had it been? Ten? Eleven?_ He couldn’t recall. He’d been drinking from puddles; eating whatever he could find (which wasn’t much, as he had been forced to keep to the shadows); traveling off the beaten path so as not to be discovered.

When he finally reached the grounds of the castle, he was so weak he could barely stand. He knew getting into the school would be difficult with the heightened security, but just when he reached the edge of the forest, he saw him.

Harry Potter.

He was walking with that surly, Durmstrang student. The Quidditch player who had been chosen for the tournament. Krum.

Potter must have heard something because he suddenly stopped and grabbed Krum’s arm, staring into the trees.

Bartemius knew he had to get to him—had to warn him of what was coming. Stumbling out of the forest, he fell to his knees and grabbed a handful of the Potter’s robes, pulling him down. The boy staggered under his weight.

In his mind, he knew exactly what he was trying to convey—the words were clear and concise—but the sounds he heard coming out of his mouth were garbled and unintelligible. _Damn his addled mind!_ Closing his eyes, he concentrated on what he wanted to say.

“Dumbledore.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I must…speak…to Dumbledore.”

“He’s—he’s at the school. Stay here, I’ll get him.” Potter removed his hands and turned to Krum. “Stay with him, I’m going for Dumbledore!”

Bartemius shook his head vigorously. He needed to get to the castle, it wasn't safe here! But his mouth would not obey and all he could do was mutter incoherently. A branch snapped in the forest behind him as if to affirm his point. He whipped around and saw nothing but dark trees and mist.

Krum raised an eyebrow skeptically and Bartemius wanted to shake him.

_Fool! Do not turn your back! Have you any idea the dangers that could be lurking in these woods?_

No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than a red jet of light shot through the trees and hit Krum squarely between the shoulder blades. His eyes widened momentarily before toppling to the ground, stunned.

With great effort, he turned to find Alastor Moody, who reached out a gnarled hand and helped him to his feet.

“Bartemius,” Moody growled, shaking his hand. “How the mighty have fallen, eh?”

“Alastor.” Bartemius rasped. “Dumbledore. I must speak with him. My son—escaped. Elizabeth…took his place…Polyjuice Potion…he’s here, at Hogwarts…”

He was panting from the exertion but Moody merely smiled.

“You would’ve made a fair Ravenclaw, Bartemius.” He grinned. “Like me.”

“I—” Bartemius stopped. “You were in Gryffindor, Alastor.”

“Right again, Father.” That magical eye was spinning out of control and Bartemius froze as the last piece clicked into place.

_“My God.”_

“The big reveal.” His son smiled gleefully in the body of the old Auror. “Genius, isn’t it? The Dark Lord and I agreed—what better irony than to take the place of the man who was responsible for my capture?”

Bartemius pressed his palms into the tree behind him and prayed that this was somehow all in his mind.

“Is he—Alastor, is he…”

“Alive?” Barty twirled Moody’s wand, looking bored. “For now. We need him for the Polyjuice Potion. You know, I think it’s a brew you might be familiar with.” He laughed as his father sank to the ground, weak and horrified.

He looked up at his son, exhausted but putting every last ounce of energy into one final plea.

“It is not…too late, Barty…take me to the castle…confess. Swear…renounce...He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Dumbledore is…reasonable. He will help you. Things can…change.”

“Enough.” Barty snarled, pulling his father roughly to his feet. “It _is_ too late. _You’re_ too late. The Dark Lord _will_ return, strengthened by the blood of the great Harry Potter. He will lead the Wizarding World, as he rightfully should have thirteen years ago. But first—my reward. I’m a loyal servant, you see, and my Lord wishes to give me a gift. Whatever I desired, he said. I could have anything. But I already knew what I wanted. I asked him for the honor of carrying out a task for him…a service I have long dreamed of performing.” He licked his lips. “Killing my father.”

“Barty, please…” Bartemius wheezed, reaching for his son with a trembling hand.

“Say hello to Mother for me.” The boy raised Moody’s wand. “Goodbye, Father.”

Bartemius’ last thought was of Elsie. Then the green light enveloped him and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow, I was racing against the clock to get this chapter finished. Big time. BUT, here it is, on the 7th, as promised! 
> 
> I have to tell you, the thought that chapter 20 will be the last chapter is...crazy. Like, I was the one all stressed about deadlines and whining that I never had time to do anything because writing and editing took all my free time, but the thought of actually being done--no more chapters, no more tickets, no more late nights in the writing closet with candles and my Crouch playlist--is making me very sadsack!
> 
> Anyway, as always, thank you so much for reading and I'll see you on the 27th for the last chapter in the lives of my favorite Harry Potter family.
> 
> Merry Christmas, loves <3
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFeet xX


	20. Tír na nÓg

When the green light reached him, it was as if he absorbed it—as if the curse had penetrated his heart and was seeping into the very tips of his fingers and toes. He felt no pain, only lightning coursing through his body, cold and crackling.

It was a whirlwind of sensation and then, quickly as it came, it was over and he was falling into a crushing, thick abyss; powerless against the gravity that seemed to be sucking at his boots.

Darkness. Blackness. Nothingness.

Farther and farther he fell, until he was no longer sure whether he was falling up or down; was no longer sure where he was, who he was, _what_ he was.

He didn’t remember his feet hitting the ground, but suddenly he was standing upright, as though he’d never fallen at all.

* * *

Bartemius Crouch stood at the end of a long hallway. So long he couldn’t even see the end of it. Doors lined the walls, stretching ahead of him as far as he could see. Straining to see what lay ahead, all he could make out was a faint white light glowing softly in the distance.

Despite its unsettling appearance, the hallway didn’t feel threatening. In fact, it was as though the light was calling to him—beckoning him to follow it to the source.

He felt behind him for the nothingness. It was still there—a wall of dark, shadowy vapor—but he knew instinctively that returning to it would be a mistake. It suddenly felt important for him to find out what the glowing light led to. He could not articulate why, but he knew—deeply, intuitively—that it was vital.

With more certainty than he’d felt in years, Bartemius began to walk towards the light. Unknown though it may be, whatever the corridor led to surely had to be better than the perpetual darkness he was leaving behind.

Nowhere to go but on.

As his footsteps echoed through the dark hall, he was flooded with memories. They seemed familiar but distant—cold, somehow. As if he were watching them from the perspective of an outsider; dreamlike and detached. 

The thought came to him unconsciously, but he knew it was true as soon as it crossed his mind: every door corresponded to a particular memory. Each one he passed had a different knob and a different type of wood, but they were all scenes from his past—gateways to his previous life. 

Birchwood and golden doorknob:

_Dancing with Elizabeth in the dining room after finding out that she was pregnant again; the indescribable, gut-wrenching devastation he felt as he held his dead daughter in his arms, her eyes the exact same shade of brown as his._

Walnut and silver:

_His promotion to Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Ministry gala filled with bubbling champagne and handshakes and pats on the back from coworkers; being shunted sideways into the Department of International Magical Cooperation, disgraced and forgotten._

Cherry and iron:

_Rocking his son to sleep, the boy smiling up at him and closing a chubby hand around his finger; looking down at him in a cold, crowded courtroom, consumed with grief and having no other choice but to declare him guilty._

Maple and copper:

_Kissing Elizabeth in the Scottish Highlands and proposing to her in the fragrant, summer air; leaving her sick and frail in that awful prison, knowingly condemning the love of his life to the worst fate imaginable._

Door after door after door he passed, bypassing his desire to stop and open them. Some of the doors were almost tempting than he could bear—memories he yearned painfully to relive: his wedding, the birth of his son, the day he met Elsie—but he forced himself to keep going; he knew somehow they were not meant for him.

As he continued walking, the light grew closer and closer until, finally, he came to a door at the end of the hallway. It was closed, but light shone out of the cracks, creating the appearance of a golden halo. The handle glowed bright and it turned easily when he reached for it.

The door swung open.

Barty froze. He was standing at the threshold of his own house, surrounded by people: his mother and father, aunts, uncles, both sets of grandparents—even a few of his friends from the Ministry who had been killed during the War. They all stared at him expectantly, as though they had been waiting for him to arrive.

Closing the door behind him, Bartemius stepped inside, feeling disconcerted and strange.

Margaret and Patrick Bagman stood in the corner of the room, waving at him.

“Hello, Barty!” Margaret called. “Lovely to see you.”

He nodded at her, unable to find his voice, and acknowledged Patrick with a tip of the hat he hadn’t been wearing a moment ago. Before he had time to scrutinize this, a woman in an emerald green gown printed with pink flowers stepped forward and took his hand.

“Bartemius,” his mother kissed him on the cheek and threw her arms around him. He felt like a little boy in her embrace. “My darling boy.”

“…Mother.” He said faintly.

“It’s so good to see you, sweetheart. Your father and I have missed you.” She straightened his tie and brushed a speck of dust from the shoulder of his cloak.

“Charis, leave the boy be, don’t fuss over him,” A deep baritone voice came from somewhere behind her.

“You hush, Caspar, it's been twenty years since I’ve seen my boy. I’d say a little fussing is warranted.” She tsked good-naturedly. “Now come and say hello to your son, he’s had a long journey.”

She moved aside to reveal Bartemius' father; a tall man with neatly trimmed grey hair and a polished gold pocket watch in his hand. Aside from the absence of a toothbrush mustache, he was the spitting image of his son. The man wore a black suit and bowler hat and, despite his stiff appearance, the corners of his eyes crinkled jovially when he smiled. Clapping him bracingly on the shoulder, Barty’s father shook his hand.

“Well done, Bartemius. I’m very proud of you.”

Caspar Crouch had always been a man of few words, but Barty felt himself swell with pride at his father’s approval.

“Thank you, Father. I—” He broke off, having just caught sight of a dog—an Irish Setter—wagging her tail and blinking excitedly up at him.

_Aurelia?_

The last time Barty had seen her, he was fourteen years old, on Christmas holiday from Hogwarts. He’d had the dog since he was five, but she’d gotten old, and with her old age had come sickness. She’d died the spring of his fourth year.

Looking at her now, he didn’t understand. She looked younger than she had at the time of her death. And, yet…it was her. The same rust-colored coat, the same black-spotted tongue, the same cold nose as she nudged his hand, demanding to be noticed. Numbly, he knelt down and petted the dog’s head, her fur soft and familiar under his hand.

He felt peaceful, serene. He felt as though this was exactly where he was supposed to be. And, yet, something niggled at the back of his mind. Something not all the way right. He struggled to remember how he had come to be here, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. His confusion was palpable. It was like a vague, ill-defined dream; the harder he tried to understand it, the more muddled it became.

“Where are we?” He turned back to his mother, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Tonight in the forest…I was at Hogwarts…Barty was there but…I can’t recall what happened. And now Aurelia, and you and Father...Elizabeth’s parents…how can this be?”

His mother chuckled and shook her head at Margaret.

“It’s so like him to want the particulars.”

Margaret smiled and patted Barty on the arm. He stared at her.

“You and Patrick, you’re…”

“Dead.” She said simply.

Barty heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the realization click into place.

“This is…some kind of afterlife?”

“Yes, love.” His mother laughed and placed a hand on his cheek. “This is some kind of afterlife.”

Bartemius stood in silence for what felt like an eternity, processing the reality of what this meant. Then, all at once, everything surged back to him.

He remembered his son, a charming, spirited boy with a bright smile and an even brighter future. He remembered Elsie’s effervescent green eyes, brilliant and sparkling. He remembered birthdays and Christmases and evenings spent in the sitting room with his family, listening to the Wizarding Wireless Network and filling out paperwork while Elsie knitted by the fire and Barty played quietly on the floor. And he remembered his last moments in the Dark Forest, alone but for the cold indifference in his son’s eyes as he raised his stolen wand.

He could see it all—his life, his death, the ruin of his family.

_His family._

He felt a sudden stab of grief. _Where was his family?_ He whipped his head around, scouring the faces in the crowd, but none of them held the answers he sought.

“Where...if this is some sort of heaven—some…Tír na nÓg, then where—”

Caspar and Patrick glanced at one another as he trailed off.

“Go on,” Margaret said gently.

“Where is Elizabeth?” He whispered. He felt the beginnings of nausea begin to creep into his throat as he tried to prepare himself for what he was about to hear.

“Oh, Barty,” Margaret said. “It’s been a long time. Thirteen years.”

He closed his eyes; felt his heart sinking. She hadn’t waited. And how could he blame her? After all that he had done…everything he had allowed to happen…his chest tightened painfully at the prospect of spending eternity without her. He should have stayed in the darkness. Anything would be better than facing her absence.

“I should have known.” He said quietly. “I should have tried harder—spent more time at home. I should have fought for her and Barty. I loved her so much—why didn’t I tell her more?”

A look of concern passed between Margaret and Charis but it quickly turned to amusement. His mother smirked in that annoying way she’d done when he was a child and she knew something he didn’t.

“Bartemius.” She said reproachfully. “Do you really think she'd let you off the hook that easily? That girl would have waited a _million_ years for you. You were the love of her life.”

Barty followed Margaret’s gaze as she looked up. His breath caught in his throat.

There, at the top of the staircase, stood Elsie.

_“Elizabeth.”_

In a split second, he saw their entire life flash before his eyes. _A fourth-year Hufflepuff with the warmest smile and greenest eyes he had ever seen. The Yule Ball and the night they danced in the Great Hall under a starry ceiling that was just as bewitched as he was. The evening he proposed to her underneath the clear summer night sky, holding her hand as they laid in the soft grass of the makeshift Quidditch pitch and planned the rest of their lives together. Years of hello and goodbye kisses, of nights spent in one another’s arms, of cold, tiny feet on him and the woman those feet belonged to. Of his Elsie, whom he had missed for so long._

For thirteen years, he had not allowed himself to dream that he would ever see her again. But somehow—impossibly—here she was. She was breathtaking; even lovelier than he remembered. She looked to be about forty, or perhaps in her late thirties. She wore a willowy, floor-length dress that was the exact same shade of green as her eyes. Her hair was blonde rather than grey, and it was pinned in a high chignon with a few loose strands framing her face. Merlin, she was radiant.

He stood frozen only for a moment, unable to move in the wake of this revelation. Then she was flying down the staircase and he was running to meet her, enveloping her as she threw herself into his arms. Keeping his hand on the back of her head, he stifled a sob, praying that this was not some cruel trick of the brain.

She smelled heartbreakingly familiar; a mixture of vanilla and citrus and clove perfume. Her cheek was warm against his.

Finally, after an indeterminable amount of time, she pulled away, beaming.

“I’ve missed you so much, Barty.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyelashes glittering with tears. “I thought you’d never get here.”

“I...” Once again, words failed him and he took her hands and squeezed them in his, as if to reassure himself that she was real. Even in death, they were still cold.

“Elizabeth— _Elsie_ —I should never have left you in that place. You deserved so much more from me and I continually failed you. I am so sorry, please forgive me.”

He felt an overpowering urge to explain—to make her understand that he truly thought he was doing the right thing; the _honorable_ thing—but she just shook her head and smoothed the collar of his shirt.

“Oh, darling.” She whispered. “You have nothing to apologize for. You did what you thought was best and no one could ask for more than that. We had a wonderful life together, Barty. I don’t regret a single moment of it. And now…well, look around you. We have all the time in the world.”

“All the time in the world.” He echoed. He couldn't tear his gaze away from her; he was drinking her in as though he were afraid he might open his eyes to find that this was all just a dream—that she might disappear at any moment. Elsie could see his sharp eyes assessing every angle and possibility, and knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Barty,” she said softly, “this is real. Everyone’s here. My mum and dad, your parents—even Welby.” She glanced over at the old House Elf who was standing next to her mother. “Winky will be along shortly, I imagine. I think Welby will like her.”

“He will.” Barty agreed absentmindedly.

“And Ludo and the girls will get here eventually, although that’s probably not exactly your idea of heaven.”

Barty smiled, but his face remained troubled, and Elsie couldn’t help but roll her eyes at how true to form this was. Always so analytical, her husband.

“Barty.” She laughed. “Stop being so neurotic. _We’re dead._ Nothing bad can happen anymore. All the suffering, all the sorrow—it’s over now. We’re free.”

_“We_ are,” Barty spoke quietly, “but what about...”

“Your son?” Elsie asked knowingly, raising an eyebrow. “He’s been waiting very patiently to see his father.”

“But—” He faltered. _This was all moving so fast, and none of it made any sense. His son? His son was a criminal—a Death Eater—who hated him enough to murder him in cold blood. He remembered the look in his eyes as he’d performed the curse that would take his life. How could his son be here?_

As though she’d read his mind, Elsie placed a hand on his wrist to still him.

“Come on out, darling,” she said, glancing behind her.

Just then, a little boy emerged from the crowd and peeked out from behind Elsie’s dress. He had dimples and freckles and sandy blonde hair that Bartemius would have recognized no matter how much time had passed.

_“Barty.”_ His heart stopped.

“Hi, Father.” The boy grinned up at him, revealing a missing tooth.

Dropping to his knees, Bartemius drew the boy into his arms.

“My boy.” He murmured, holding him tightly. Tears were streaming down his face but he made no effort to wipe them away. “I’ve missed you so much. I…I owe you an apology, Barty. Everything that happened…I should have been more observant; I should have told you how much I loved you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Barty shrugged. “I don’t really remember anything. And, anyway, Mother says it’s never too late to start over. Would you like to start over, Father?” His green eyes were full of hope and childlike innocence. There wasn't a single trace of the old Barty in his gaze.

“More than anything.” Bartemius made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Come on then,” The boy said brightly, tugging eagerly at his father’s arm. “Mum made lemon tarts and I want to show you my new broom! It’s a real one—I can go almost as fast as Uncle Ludo!”

Bartemius took his son’s outstretched hand and allowed himself to be led down the hall and into a small bedroom, where he knelt down on the carpet beside Barty, listening as the boy animatedly explained the make and model of his starter broom. He was babbling so fast that Bartemius couldn't understand a word of what he was saying, but he wouldn’t have traded this moment for anything. Looking at the Wimbourne Wasps poster and the beater’s bat lamp and the tiny, fire-breathing dragons, he remembered nothing of his captivity or the grief he had endured here. It was as though all of it had simply melted away and he was left only with how things were supposed to be. He and his family; together again at last.

He glanced over his shoulder at Elsie, who sidled up behind him as Barty Jr. continued to play happily by himself—he had now moved on to a toy Billlywig that lit up and buzzed around the room.

“You were right all along,” Bartemius said as she slipped her arms around him. “As per absolutely always.”

Elsie laughed and kissed him on the cheek.

“I promise not to gloat.” She whispered. “Well—not much, anyway.”

Bartemius’ chest rumbled with laughter as he turned to face her. She reached up and trailed her fingers down his jaw and he was overwhelmed by the realization that they would never again have to be apart.

He kissed her then, slow and sweet and full of an eternity of promises.

“I love you.” He said hoarsely.

“I love you too.” She laid her head on his chest and gazed up at him with stars in her eyes. “Welcome home, Barty.”

And he knew in that moment that she _was_ right. The struggle was over. He was reunited with his son—reunited with Elsie. He had a fresh start; the opportunity to undo all of his mistakes. They had all the time in the world. And all the lacewing flies and lemon tarts in the world could never come between his family ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe this story is done. It’s been 10 months, but I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime with Barty and Elsie.
> 
> This story has changed everything I thought I knew about myself. Since I was in 4th grade, writing has been a part of my identity. But I have never, not once, finished a story. For years, I’ve worried that I would never be able to.
> 
> Today, Of Lacewing Flies and Lemon Tarts is complete. 
> 
> I am...overwhelmed with feelings. I’m proud, elated, in shock. I can’t believe it’s over. I proved to myself and to everyone who told me that I couldn’t that I could. That I can. 
> 
> It was long and hard and painstakingly tedious at times, but it was also an honor. I got to tell the story of one of the most profound, underappreciated characters in the series and, while this was never going to get me boatloads of kudos or reviews, I didn’t write it for acknowledgement. I wrote it because Barty and Elsie deserved to have their story told. 
> 
> I know dedications are usually done at the beginning, but here’s mine, at the very end:
> 
> *Firstly, to everyone who read, left kudos, reviewed and supported me, thank you so much. There were times when a simple like or comment truly got me through a bad day. 
> 
> *To Jr., who taught me that there’s a balance in all of us—a fine line between the light and the dark.
> 
> *To Elsie—sweet, nameless Mrs. Crouch who never got the recognition she deserved. She taught me that the power of unconditional love is enough, in the end, and that a lifetime spent loving someone is never wasted.
> 
> *But, most of all, to Barty, who made me a better writer and a better person. I fell in love with his dedication, his morals, his resolve. His unwavering belief that evil can be defeated if one fights hard enough. So, thank you, Barty Crouch. I will love you forever.
> 
> And this is where I leave you. I am putting down my pen and notebook and sending this story out into the world. I have poured my heart and soul into it and it has taken everything I had to give. I love it like I have never loved a piece of my own work, and I will always remember this as my first true writing success. 
> 
> SO much love to everyone who has been a part of this, and my eternal gratitude. 
> 
> Xx LimeGreenSockFeet xX


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